BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


SHAPES  OF  CLAY 


BY 

AMBROSE    BIERCE 

AUTHOR  OF   "IN   THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE,"    "  CAN   SUCH   THINGS  BE?" 
"  BLACK  BEETLES  IN   AMBER,"  AND   "FANTASTIC  FABLES  " 


W.  E.  WOOD,  PUBLISHER 

SAN    FRANCISCO 
1903 


643 


COPYRIGHT 

1903 
BY  AMBROSE  BIERCE 


THE   MURDOCK  PRESS 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


DEDICATION. 

WITH  PRIDE  IN  THEIR  WORK,  FAITH  IN  THEIR  FUTURE 
AND  AFFECTION  FOR  THEMSELVES,  AN  OLD  WRITER 
DEDICATES  THIS  BOOK  TO  HIS  YOUNG  FRIENDS  AND 
PUPILS,  GEORGE  STERLING  AND  HERMAN  SCHEFFAUER. 

A.  B, 


I,'    '! 


PREFACE. 


Some  small  part  of  this  book  being  personally  cen- 
sorious, and  in  that  part  the  names  of  real  persons 
being  used  without  their  assent,  it  seems  fit  that  a  few 
words  be  said  of  the  matter  in  sober  prose.  What  it 
seems  well  to  say  I  have  already  said  with  sufficient 
clarity  in  the  preface  of  another  book,  somewhat  allied 
to  this  by  that  feature  of  its  character.  I  quote  from 
"Black  Beetles  in  Amber:" 

"Many  of  the  verses  in  this  book  are  republished, 
with  considerable  alterations,  from  various  newspapers. 
Of  my  motives  in  writing  and  in  now  republishing  I 
do  not  care  to  make  either  defence  or  explanation,  ex- 
cept with  reference  to  those  who  since  my  first  censure 
of  them  have  passed  away.  To  one  having  only  a 
reader's  interest  in  the  matter  it  may  easily  seem  that 
the  verses  relating  to  those  might  properly  have  been 
omitted  from  this  collection.  But  if  these  pieces,  or 
indeed,  if  any  considerable  part  of  my  work  in  litera- 
ture, have  the  intrinsic  worth  which  by  this  attempt 
to  preserve  some  of  it  I  have  assumed,  their  permanent 


vi  PREFACE. 

suppression  is  impossible,  and  it  is  only  a  question  of 
when  and  by  whom  they  will  be  republished.  Some 
one  will  surely  search  them  out  and  put  them  in  circu- 
lation. 

"I  conceive  it  the  right  of  an  author  to  have  his 
fugitive  work  collected  in  his  lifetime ;  and  this  seems 
to  me  especially  true  of  one  whose  work,  necessarily 
engendering  animosities,  is  peculiarly  exposed  to  chal- 
lenge as  unjust.  That  is  a  charge  that  can  best  be 
examined  before  time  has  effaced  the  evidence.  For 
the  death  of  a  man  of  whom  I  have  written  what  I  may 
venture  to  think  worthy  to  live  I  am  no  way  responsi- 
ble ;  and  however  sincerely  I  may  regret  it,  I  can  hardly 
consent  that  it  shall  affect  my  literary  fortunes. 
If  the  satirist  who  does  not  accept  the  remarkable  doc- 
trine that,  while  condemning  the  sin  he  should  spare 
the  sinner,  were  bound  to  let  the  life  of  his  work  be 
coterminous  with  that  of  his  subject  his  were  a  lot  of 
peculiar  hardship. 

"Persuaded  of  the  validity  of  all  this  I  have  not  hesi- 
tated to  reprint  even  certain  'epitaphs'  which,  once  of 
the  living,  are  now  of  the  dead,  as  all  the  others  must 
eventually  be.  The  objection  inheres  in  all  forms  of 
applied  satire — my  understanding  of  whose  laws  and 
liberties  is  at  least  derived  from  reverent  study  of  the 


PREFACE.  vii 

masters.  That  in  respect  of  matters  herein  mentioned 
I  have  but  followed  their  practice  can  be  shown  by 
abundant  instance  and  example." 

In  arranging  these  verses  for  publication  I  have 
thought  it  needless  to  classify  them  according  to  char- 
acter, as  "Serious,"  "Comic,"  "Sentimental,"  "Satiri- 
cal," and  so  forth.  I  do  the  reader  the  honor  to  think 
that  he  will  readily  discern  the  nature  of  what  he  is 
reading;  and  I  entertain  the  hope  that  his  mood  will 
accommodate  itself  without  disappointment  to  that  of 
his  author. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE    PASSING    SHOW     I 

ELIXIR    VIT^E     5 

CONVALESCENT     7 

AT   THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   CANVASS    9 

NOVUM    ORGANUM     12 

GEOTHEOS     13 

YORICK     15 

A   VISION    OF   DOOM     17 

POLITICS     21 

POESY     22 

IN    DEFENSE    , 23 

AN    INVOCATION     25 

RELIGION     3O 

A    MORNING    FANCY    31 

VISIONS    OF    SIN     33 

THE   TOWN    OF   D^    35 

AN     ANARCHIST     41 

AN    OFFER  OF    MARRIAGE    42 

ARMA   VIRUMQUE    45 

ON   A  PROPOSED  CREMATORY    46 

A    DEMAND    48 

THE    WEATHER    WIGHT     51 

T.    A.    H 56 

MY    MONUMENT    57 

MAD      58 

HOSPITALITY     60 

FOR   A    CERTAIN    CRITIC    6l 

RELIGIOUS    PROGRESS    63 

MAGNANIMITY     65 

TO    HER    66 

TO    A    SUMMER    POET    67 

ARTHUR  MCEWEN    69 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHARLES   AND    PETER    7O 

CONTEMPLATION   72 

CREATION   73 

BUSINESS   74 

A  POSSIBILITY  75 

TO  A  CENSOR  76 

THE  HESITATING  VETERAN  79 

A  YEAR'S  CASUALTIES  82 

INSPIRATION    83 

TO-DAY     84 

AN    ALIBI     86 

REBUKE    93 

J-    F.    B 94 

THE   DYING    STATESMAN    95 

THE  DEATH   OF  GRANT    96 

THE   FOUNTAIN   REFILLED    98 

LAUS   LUCIS    103 

NANINE     IO4 

TECHNOLOGY 105 

A    REPLY    TO    A    LETTER    IO7 

TO   OSCAR  WILDE    I IO 

PRAYER    Ill 

A  "BORN  LEADER  OF  MEN"   112 

TO  THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE  113 

AN  UNMERRY  CHRISTMAS  115 

BY  A  DEFEATED  LITIGANT  117 

AN  EPITAPH   1 18 

THE  POLITICIAN   119 

AN  INSCRIPTION  120 

FROM  VIRGINIA  TO  PARIS  121 

A  "MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON"  122 

THE  FREE  TRADER'S  LAMENT   123 

SUBTERRANEAN  PHANTASIES 125 

IN  MEMORIAM   128 

THE  STATESMEN  131 

THE  BROTHERS   134 

THE  CYNIC'S  BEQUEST   135 

CORRECTED  NEWS 143 

AN  EXPLANATION    144 

JUSTICE    145 

MR.   FINK'S   DEBATING  DONKEY    146 

TO    MY    LAUNDRESS     151 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 
FAME 152 

OMNES  VANITAS  154 

ASPIRATION    155 

DEMOCRACY  156 

THE  NEW  "ULALUME" 157 

CONSOLATION  158 

FATE     159 

PHILOSOPHER   BIMM    l6o 

REMINDED    l62 

SALVINI    IN    AMERICA     164 

ANOTHER    WAY    l66 

ART l67 

AN   ENEMY  TO   LAW   AND   ORDER    l68 

TO  ONE  ACROSS   THE   WAY    169 

THE    DEBTOR    ABROAD     I7O 

FORESIGHT     171 

A    FAIR    DIVISION     172 

GENESIS      173 

LIBERTY    174 

THE   PASSING   OF   "BOSS"    SHEPHERD    175 

TO    MAUDE    178 

THE  BIRTH   OF  VIRTUE 179 

STONEMAN    IN    HEAVEN     l8o 

THE  SCURRIL  PRESS    l8l 

STANLEY 184 

ONE   OF  THE   UNFAIR   SEX    l86 

THE  LORD'S   PRAYER  ON  A  COIN 187 

A    LACKING    FACTOR l88 

THE    ROYAL    JESTER 189 

A  CAREER  IN  LETTERS 193 

THE   FOLLOWING    PAIR 195 

POLITICAL     ECONOMY 196 

VANISHED  AT  COCK-CROW 197 

THE    UNPARDONABLE    SIN 198 

INDUSTRIAL    DISCONTENT 2OO 

TEMPORA    MUTANTUR 2O2 

CONTENTMENT 2O4 

THE  NEW  ENOCH 206 

DISAVOWAL    2C9 

AN    AVERAGE 2IO 

WOMAN 211 

INCURABLE    .  .    212 


xii  CONTENTS. 

P.AGE 

THE   PUN 213 

A  PARTISAN'S  PROTEST 215 

TO    NANINE     2l6 

VICE  VERSA 217 

A    BLACK-LIST 2l8 

A  BEQUEST  TO  MUSIC 219 

AUTHORITY 22O 

THE    PSORIAD 221 

ONEIROMANCY    225 

PEACE    220 

THANKSGIVING 22/ 

L'AUDACE 230 

THE   GOD'S    VIEW-POINT 23! 

THE   ESTHETES 235 

JULY    FOURTH 236 

WITH    MINE    OWN    PETARD 237 

CONSTANCY    239 

SIRES   AND   SONS 24! 

A   CHALLENGE 242 

TWO    SHOWS 244 

A  POET'S  HOPE 246 

THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  DEVIL 249 

TWO    ROGUES 25O 

BEECHER 252 

NOT   GUILTY 253 

PRESENTIMENT    254 

A    STUDY    IN    GRAY 255 

A  PARADOX    257 

FOR   MERIT 258 

A  BIT  OF   SCIENCE 259 

THE  TABLES   TURNED    260 

TO  A  DEJECTED  POET 26l 

A   FOOL    262 

THE   HUMORIST    264 

MONTEFIORE 265 

A   WARNING    266 

DISCRETION    267 

AN    EXILE    268 

THE   DIVISION    SUPERINTENDENT    269 

PSYCHOGRAPHS     270 

TO   A   PROFESSIONAL   EULOGIST    271 

FOR    WOUNDS     273 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

PAGE 

ELECTION    DAY    274 

THE    MILITIAMAN     276 

A  LITERARY  METHOD 277 

A  WELCOME 278 

A   SERENADE 279 

THE   WISE  AND  GOOD    280 

THE  LOST  COLONEL 282 

FOR  TAT 285 

A    DILEMMA    286 

METEMPSYCHOSIS    288 

THE   SAINT  AND  THE   MONK    289 

THE  OPPOSING  SEX    2QI 

A    WHIPPER-IN    292 

JUDGMENT     294 

THE  FALL  OF  MISS   LARKIN    295 

IN    HIGH    LIFE    .  , 298 

A  BUBBLE 299 

A    RENDEZVOUS 3OI 

FRANCINE 3O2 

AN    EXAMPLE    3O3 

REVENGE    304 

THE  GENESIS   OF  EMBARRASSMENT 306 

IN    CONTUMACIAM     3O7 

RE-EDIFIED      308 

A   BULLETIN     309 

FROM    THE    MINUTES    3IO 

WOMAN    IN    POLITICS    312 

TO    AN    ASPIRANT    314 

A    BALLAD    OF    PIKEVILLE    315 

A    BUILDER     3l8 

AN    AUGURY     319 

LUSUS    POLITICUS    32O 

BEREAVEMENT    323 

AN  INSCRIPTION 325 

A    PICKBRAIN    326 

CONVALESCENT 327 

THE    NAVAL    CONSTRUCTOR    328 

DETECTED    33O 

BIMETALISM     331 

THE  RICH   TESTATOR 333 

TWO     METHODS     334 

FOUNDATIONS  OF  THE   STATE 335 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AN  IMPOSTER 337 

UNEXPOUNDED 338 

FRANCE    339 

THE  EASTERN  QUESTION 34O 

A  GUEST 341 

A  FALSE  PROPHECY 342 

TWO  TYPES .' 343 

SOME  ANTE-MORTEM   EPITAPHS 344 

A  HYMN  OF  THE  MANY 348 

ONE   MORNING    349 

AN  ERROR 350 

AT  THE  "NATIONAL  ENCAMPMENT" 351 

THE  KING  OF  BORES  353 

HISTORY    354 

THE  HERMIT 355 

TO  A  CRITIC  OF  TENNYSON 357 

THE  YEARLY  LIE 358 

CO-OPERATION 360 

AN  APOLOGUE 361 

DIAGNOSIS     362 

FALLEN     363 

DIES  IR^E 364 

THE  DAY  OF  WRATH 365 

ONE  MOOD'S  EXPRESSION    372 

SOMETHING   IN    THE   PAPERS    373 

IN   THE   BINNACLE    374 

HUMILITY    375 

ONE    PRESIDENT    376 

THE  BRIDE    377 

STRAINED   RELATIONS    378 

THE   MAN    BORN   BLIND    379 

A    NIGHTMARE    382 

A  WET  SEASON    383 

THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAGS    385 

VLMC  FABULA  DOCET 388 

EXONERATION     389 

AZRAEL     390 

AGAIN     392 

HOMO    PODUNKENSIS    394 

A  SOCIAL  CALL 395 


SHAPES    OF    CLAY 


THE    PASSING    SHOW. 
I. 

I  know  not  if  it  was  a  dream.    I  viewed 
A  city  where  the  restless  multitude, 

Between  the  eastern  and  the  western  deep 
Had  reared  gigantic  fabrics,  strong  and  rude. 

Colossal  palaces  crowned  every  height; 
Towers  from  valleys  climbed  into  the  light; 

O'er  dwellings  at  their  feet,  great  golden  domes 
Hung  in  the  blue,  barbarically  bright. 

But  now,  new-glimmering  to-east,  the  day 
Touched  the  black  masses  with  a  grace  of  gray, 

Dim  spires  of  temples  to  the  nation's  God 
Studding  high  spaces  of  the  wide  survey. 

Well  did  the  roofs  their  solemn  secret  keep 
Of  life  and  death  stayed  by  the  truce  of  sleep, 

Yet  whispered  of  an  hour  when  sleepers  wake, 
The  fool  to  hope  afresh,  the  wise  to  weep. 

The  gardens  greened  upon  the  builded  hills 
Above  the  tethered  thunders  of  the  mills 

With  sleeping  wheels  unstirred  to  service  yet 
By  the  tamed  torrents  and  the  quickened  rills. 


THE   PASSING   SHOW. 

A  hewn  acclivity,  reprieved  a  space, 
Looked  on  the  builder's  blocks  about  his  base 

And  bared  his  wounded  breast  in  sign  to  say : 
"  Strike !  't  is  my  destiny  to  lodge  your  race. 

"  'T  was  but  a  breath  ago  the  mammoth  browsed 
Upon  my  slopes,  and  in  my  caves  I  housed 
Your  shaggy  fathers  in  their  nakedness, 
While  on  their  foeman's  offal  they  caroused." 

Ships  from  afar  afforested  the  bay. 

Within  their  huge  and  chambered  bodies  lay 

The  wealth  of  continents ;  and  merrily  sailed 
The  hardy  argosies  to  far  Cathay. 

Beside  the  city  of  the  living  spread — 
Strange  fellowship ! — the  city  of  the  dead  ; 

And  much  I  wondered  what  its  humble  folk, 
To  see  how  bravely  they  were  housed,  had  said. 

Noting  how  firm  their  habitations  stood, 
Broad-based  and  free  of  perishable  wood — 

How  deep  in  granite  and  how  high  in  brass 
The  names  were  wrought  of  eminent  and  good, 

I  said :    "  When  gold  or  power  is  their  aim, 
The  smile  of  beauty  or  the  wage  of  shame, 

Men  dwell  in  cities ;  to  this  place  they  fare 
When  they  would  conquer  an  abiding  fame." 


THE   PASSING   SHOW. 

From  the  red  East  the  sun — a  solemn  rite — 
Crowned  with  a  flame  the  cross  upon  a  height 

Above  the  dead ;  and  then  with  all  his  strength 
Struck  the  great  city  all  aroar  with  light ! 


II. 


I  know  not  if  it  was  a  dream.    I  came 

Unto  a  land  where  something  seemed  the  same 

That  I  had  known  as  't  were  but  yesterday, 
But  what  it  was  I  could  not  rightly  name. 

It  was  a  strange  and  melancholy  land, 
Silent  and  desolate.     On  either  hand 

Lay  waters  of  a  sea  that  seemed  as  dead, 
And  dead  above  it  seemed  the  hills  to  stand. 

Grayed  all  with  age,  those  lonely  hills — ah  me, 
How  worn  and  weary  they  appeared  to  be ! 

Between  their  feet  long  dusty  fissures  clove 
The  plain  in  aimless  windings  to  the  sea. 

One  hill  there  was  which,  parted  from  the  rest, 
Stood  where  the  eastern  water  curved  a-west. 

Silent  and  passionless  it  stood.     I  thought 
I  saw  a  scar  upon  its  giant  breast. 


THE   PASSING   SHOW. 

The  sun  with  sullen  and  portentous  gleam 
Hung  like  a  menace  on  the  sea's  extreme; 

Nor  the  dead  waters,  nor  the  far,  bleak  bars 
Of  cloud  were  conscious  of  his  failing  beam. 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  dreadful  sight, 
That  desert  in  its  cold,  uncanny  light; 
No  soul  but  I  alone  to  mark  the  fear 
And  imminence  of  everlasting  night! 

All  presages  and  prophecies  of  doom 
Glimmered  and  babbled  in  the  ghastly  gloom, 

And  in  the  midst  of  that  accursed  scene 
A  wolf  sat  howling  on  a  broken  tomb. 


ELIXIR    VITM. 


ELIXIR    VIT^E. 

Of  life's  elixir  I  had  writ,  when  sleep 

(Pray  Heaven  it  spared  him  who  the  writing  read!) 

Settled  upon  my  senses  with  so  deep 

A  stupefaction  that  men  thought  me  dead. 

The  centuries  stole  by  with  noiseless  tread, 

Like  spectres  in  the  twilight  of  my  dream; 

I  saw  mankind  in  dim  procession  sweep 

Through  life,  oblivion  at  each  extreme. 

Meanwhile  my  beard,  like  Barbarossa's  growing, 

Loaded  my  lap  and  o'er  my  knees  was  flowing. 

The  generations  came  with  dance  and  song, 

And  each  observed  me  curiously  there. 

Some  asked :    "  Who  was  he  ?  "  Others  in  the  throng 

Replied :   "  A  wicked  monk  who  slept  at  prayer." 

Some  said  I  was  a  saint,  and  some  a  bear — 

These  all  were  women.    So  the  young  and  gay, 

Visibly  wrinkling  as  they  fared  along, 

Doddered  at  last  on  failing  limbs  away ; 

Though  some,  their  footing  in  my  beard  entangled, 

Fell  into  its  abysses  and  were  strangled. 


ELIXIR    VITJE. 

At  last  a  generation  came  that  walked 
More  slowly  forward  to  the  common  tomb, 
Then  altogether  stopped.     The  women  talked 
Excitedly ;  the  men,  with  eyes  agloom 
Looked  darkly  on  them  with  a  look  of  doom ; 
And  one  cried  out :    "  We  are  immortal  now — 
How  need  we  these  ?  "    And  a  dread  figure  stalked, 
Silent,  with  gleaming  axe  and  shrouded  brow, 
And  all  men  cried :    "  Decapitate  the  women, 
Or  soon  there  '11  be  no  room  to  stand  or  swim  in ! " 

So  (in  my  dream)  each  lovely  head  was  chopped 
From  its  fair  shoulders,  and  but  men  alone 
Were  left  in  all  the  world.    Birth  being  stopped, 
Enough  of  room  remained  in  every  zone, 
And  Peace  ascended  Woman's  vacant  throne. 
Thus,  life's  elixir  being  found  (the  quacks 
Their  bread-and-butter  in  it  gladly  sopped) 
'T  was  made  worth  having  by  the  headsman's  axe. 
Seeing  which,  I  gave  myself  a  hearty  shaking, 
And  crumbled  all  to  powder  in  the  waking. 


CONVALESCENT. 


CONVALESCENT. 

What!  "  Out  of  danger?"     Can  the  slighted  Dame 

Or  canting  Pharisee  no  more  defame? 

Will  Treachery  caress  my  hand  no  more, 

Nor  Hatred  lie  alurk  about  my  door? — 

Ingratitude,  with  benefits  dismissed, 

Not  close  the  loaded  palm  to  make  a  fist? 

Will  Envy  henceforth  not  retaliate 

For  virtues  it  were  vain  to  emulate  ? 

Will  Ignorance  my  knowledge  fail  to  scout, 

Not  understanding  what  't  is  all  about, 

Yet  feeling  in  its  light  so  mean  and  small 

That  all  his  little  soul  is  turned  to  gall? 

What !     "  Out  of  danger  ?  "     Jealousy  disarmed  ? 
Greed  from  exaction  magically  charmed? 
Ambition  stayed  from  trampling  whom  it  meets, 
Like  horses  fugitive  in  crowded  streets? 
The  Bigot,  with  his  candle,  book  and  bell, 
Tongue-tied,  unlunged  and  paralyzed  as  well? 
The  Critic  righteously  to  justice  haled, 
His  own  ear  to  the  post  securely  nailed — 
What  most  he  dreads  unable  to  inflict, 


CONVALESCENT. 

And  powerless  to  hawk  the  faults  he  's  picked  ? 

The  liar  choked  upon  his  choicest  lie, 

And  impotent  alike  to  villify 

Or  flatter  for  the  gold  of  thrifty  men 

Who  hate  his  person  but  employ  his  pen — 

Who  love  and  loathe,  respectively,  the  dirt 

Belonging  to  his  character  and  shirt? 

What!  "  Out  of  danger?" — Nature's  minions  all, 
Like  hounds  returning  to  the  huntsman's  call, 
Obedient  to  the  unwelcome  note 
That  stays  them  from  the  quarry's  bursting  throat  ? — 
Famine  and  Pestilence  and  Earthquake  dire, 
Torrent  and  Tempest,  Lightning,  Frost  and  Fire, 
The  soulless  Tiger  and  the  mindless  Snake, 
The  noxious  Insect  from  the  stagnant  lake 
(Automaton  malevolences  wrought 
Out  of  the  substance  of  Creative  Thought) — 
These  from  their  immemorial  prey  restrained, 
Their  fury  baffled  and  their  power  chained? 

I  'm  safe  ?    Is  that  what  the  physician  said  ? 
What!   "  Out  of  danger?  "    Then,  by  Heaven,  I  'm 
dead! 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  CANVASS. 


AT   THE    CLOSE   OF   THE   CANVASS. 

T  was  a  Venerable  Person,  whom  I  met  one  Sunday 
morning, 

All  appareled  as  a  prophet  of  a  melancholy  sect ; 
And  in  a  Jeremaid  of  objurgatory  warning 

He  lifted  up  his  jo  del  to  the  following  effect : 

"  O   ye   sanguinary   statesmen,    intermit   your   verbal 
tussles ! 

O  ye  editors  and  orators,  consent  to  hear  my  lay ! 
Rest  a  little  while  the  digital  and  maxillary  muscles 

And  attend  to  what  a  Venerable  Person  has  to  say. 

"  Cease  your  writing,  cease  your  shouting,  cease  your 

wild  unearthly  lying ; 
Cease  to  bandy  such  expressions  as  are  never,  never 

found 

In  the  letter  of  a  lover ;  cease  "  exposing  "  and  "  re- 
plying "— 
Let  there  be  abated  fury  and  a  decrement  of  sound. 

"  For  to-morrow  will  be  Monday  and  the  fifth  day  of 

November — 
Only  day  of  opportunity  before  the  final  rush. 


io  AT    THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   CANVASS. 

Carpe  diem !  go  conciliate  each  person  who  's  a  mem- 
ber 

Of  the  other  party — do  it  while  you  can  without  a 
blush. 

"  Lo !  the  time  is  close  upon  you  when  the  madness  of 

the  season 
Having  howled  itself  to  silence,  like  a  Minnesota 

'clone, 
Will  at  last  be  superseded  by  the  still,  small  voice  of 

reason, 

When  the  whelpage  of  your  folly  you  would  will- 
ingly disown. 

"  Ah,  't  is  mournful  to  consider  what  remorses  will  be 

thronging, 
With  a  consciousness  of  having  been  so  ghastly 

indiscreet, 

When   by   accident  untoward   two   ex-gentlemen  be- 
longing 
To  the  opposite  political  denominations  meet ! 

"  Yes,  't  is  melancholy,  truly,  to  forecast  the  fierce, 

unruly 
Supersurging  of  their  blushes,  like  the  flushes  upon 

high 

When  Aurora  Borealis  lights  her  circumpolar  palace 
And  in  customary  manner  sets  her  banner  in  the  sky. 


AT    THE   CLOSE   OF    THE   CANVASS.  n 

"  Each  will  think :     '  This  falsifier  knows  that  I  too 

am  a  liar. 

Curse  him  for  a  son  of  Satan,  all  unholily  compound ! 
Curse  my  leader  for  another!    Curse  that  pelican,  my 

mother ! 

Would  to  God  that  I  when  little  in  my  victual  had 
been  drowned ! ' : 

Then  that  Venerable  Person  went  away  without  re- 
turning 
And,  the  madness  of  the  season  having  also  taken 

flight, 
All  the  people  soon  were  blushing  like  the  skies  to 

crimson  burning 
When  Aurora  Borealis  fires  her  premises  by  night. 


12  NOVUM   ORGANUM. 


NOVUM    ORGANUM. 

In  Bacon  see  the  culminating  prime 
Of  Anglo-Saxon  intellect  and  crime. 
He  dies  and  Nature,  settling  his  affairs, 
Parts  his  endowments  among  us,  his  heirs 
To  every  one  a  pinch  of  brain  for  seed, 
And,  to  develop  it,  a  pinch  of  greed. 
Each  thrifty  heir,  to  make  the  gift  suffice, 
Buries  the  talent  to  manure  the  vice. 


GEOTHEOS.  13 


GEOTHEOS. 

As  sweet  as  the  look  of  a  lover 
Saluting  the  eyes  of  a  maid, 
That  blossom  to  blue  as  the  maid 

Is  ablush  to  the  glances  above  her, 
The  sunshine  is  gilding  the  glade 
And  lifting  the  lark  out  of  shade. 

Sing  therefore  high  praises,  and  therefore 
Sing  songs  that  are  ancient  as  gold, 
Of  Earth  in  her  garments  of  gold ; 

Nor  ask  of  their  meaning,  nor  wherefore 
They  charm  as  of  yore,  for  behold ! 
The  Earth  is  as  fair  as  of  old. 

Sing  songs  of  the  pride  of  the  mountains, 
And  songs  of  the  strength  of  the  seas, 
And  the  fountains  that  fall  to  the  seas 

From  the  hands  of  the  hills,  and  the  fountains 
That  shine  in  the  temples  of  trees, 
In  valleys  of  roses  and  bees. 


14  GEOTHEOS. 

Sing  songs  that  are  dreamy  and  tender, 

Of  slender  Arabian  palms, 

And  shadows  that  circle  the  palms, 
Where  caravans,  veiled  from  the  splendor, 

Are  kneeling  in  blossoms  and  balms, 

In  islands  of  infinite  calms. 


Barbaric,  O  Man,  was  thy  runing 

When  mountains  were  stained  as  with  wine 

By  the  dawning  of  Time,  and  as  wine 
Were  the  seas,  yet  its  echoes  are  crooning, 

Achant  in  the  gusty  pine 

And  the  pulse  of  the  poet's  line. 


YORICK.  15 


YORICK. 

Hard  by  an  excavated  street  one  sat 

In  solitary  session  on  the  sand ; 
And  ever  and  anon  he  spake  and  spat 

And  spake  again — a  yellow  skull  in  hand, 
To  which  that  retrospective  Pioneer 
Addressed  the  few  remarks  that  follow  here: 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Did  you  come  'der  blains  agross/ 
Or  '  Horn  aroundt '  ?    In  days  o'  '49 

Did  them  thar  eye-holes  see  the  Southern  Cross 
From  the  Antarctic  Sea  git  up  an'  shine? 

Or  did  you  drive  a  bull  team  '  all  the  way 

From  Pike/  with  Mr.  Joseph  Bowers? — say! 

"  Was  you  in  Frisco  when  the  water  came 
Up  to  Montgum'ry  street?  and  do  you  mind 

The  time  when  Peters  run  the  faro  game — 
Jim  Peters  from  old  Mississip — behind 

Wells  Fargo's,  where  he  subsequent  was  bust 

By  Sandy,  as  regards  both  bank  and  crust? 

"  I  wonder  was  you  here  when  Casey  shot 
James  King  o'  William?  And  did  you  attend 

The  neck-tie  dance  ensuin'?    /  did  not, 

But  j'ined  the  rush  to  Go  Creek  with  my  friend 


16  YORICK. 

Ed'ard  McGowan;  for  we  was  resolved 
In  sech  diversions  not  to  be  involved. 

"  Maybe  I  knowed  you ;  seems  to  me  I  've  seed 
Your  face  afore.    I  don't  forget  a  face, 

But  names  I  disremember — I  'm  that  breed 
Of  owls.    I  'm  talking  some'at  into  space 

An'  maybe  my  remarks  is  too  derned  free, 

Seein'  yer  name  is  unbeknown  to  me. 

"  Ther'  was  a  time,  I  reckon,  when  I  knowed 
Nigh  onto  every  dern  galoot  in  town. 

That  was  as  late  as  '50.  Now  she 's  growed 
Surprisin' !  Yes,  me  an'  my  pardner,  Brown, 

Was  wide  acquainted.     If  ther'  was  a  cuss 

We  did  n't  know,  the  cause  was — he  knowed  us. 

"  Maybe  you  had  that  claim  adjoinin'  mine 

Up  thar  in  Calaveras.    Was  it  you 
To  which  Long  Mary  took  a  mighty  shine, 

An'  throwed  squar'  off  on  Jake  the  Kangaroo? 
I  guess  if  she  could  see  ye  now  she  M  take 
Her  chance  o'  happiness  along  o'  Jake. 

"  You  ain't  so  purty  now  as  you  was  then : 
Yer  eyes  is  nothin'  but  two  prospect  holes, 

An'  women  which  are  hitched  to  better  men 

Would  hardly  for  sech  glances  damn  their  souls, 

As  Lengthie  did.   By  G !  I  hope  it 's  you, 

For"  (kicks  the  skull)  "I'm  Jake  the  Kangaroo." 


A    VISION   OF   DOOM.  17 


A  VISION  OF  DOOM. 

I  stood  upon  a  hill.     The  setting  sun 
Was  crimson  with  a  curse  and  a  portent, 
And  scarce  his  angry  ray  lit  up  the  land 
That  lay  below,  whose  lurid  gloom  appeared 
Freaked  with  a  moving  mist,  which,  reeking  up 
From  dim  tarns  hateful  with  some  horrid  ban, 
Took  shapes  forbidden  and  without  a  name. 
Gigantic  night-birds,  rising  from  the  reeds 
With  cries  discordant,  startled  all  the  air, 
And  bodiless  voices  babbled  in  the  gloom — 
The  ghosts  of  blasphemies  long  ages  stilled, 
And  shrieks  of  women,  and  men's  curses.     All 
These  visible  shapes,  and  sounds  no  mortal  ear 
Had  ever  heard,  some  spiritual  sense 
Interpreted,  though  brokenly;  for  I 
Was  haunted  by  a  consciousness  of  crime, 
Some  giant  guilt,  but  whose  I  knew  not.     All 
These  things  malign,  by  sight  and  sound  revealed, 
Were  sin-begotten ;  that  I  knew — no  more — 
And  that  but  dimly,  as  in  dreadful  dreams 
The  sleepy  senses  babble  to  the  brain 
Imperfect  witness.     As  I  stood  a  voice, 


i8  A    VISION   OF   DOOM. 

But  whence  it  came  I  knew  not,  cried  aloud 

Some  words  to  me  in  a  forgotten  tongue, 

Yet  straight  I  knew  me  for  a  ghost  forlorn, 

Returned  from  the  illimited  inane. 

Again,  but  in  a  language  that  I  knew, 

As  in  reply  to  something  which  in  me 

Had  shaped  itself  a  thought,  but  found  no  words, 

It  spake  from  the  dread  mystery  about: 

"  Immortal  shadow  of  a  mortal  soul 

That  perished  with  eternity,  attend. 

What  thou  beholdest  is  as  void  as  thou : 

The  shadow  of  a  poet's  dream — himself 

As  thou,  his  soul  as  thine,  long  dead, 

But  not  like  thine  outlasted  by  its  shade. 

His  dreams  alone  survive  eternity 

As  pictures  in  the  unsubstantial  void. 

Excepting  thee  and  me  (and  we  because 

The  poet  wove  us  in  his  thought)  remains 

Of  nature  and  the  universe  no  part 

Or  vestige  but  the  poet's  dreams.     This  dread, 

Unspeakable  land  about  thy  feet,  with  all 

Its  desolation  and  its  terrors — lo! 

'T  is  but  a  phantom  world.     So  long  ago 

That  God  and  all  the  angels  since  have  died 

That  poet  lived — yourself  long  dead — his  mind 

Filled  with  the  light  of  a  prophetic  fire, 

And  standing  by  the  Western  sea,  above 

The  youngest,  fairest  city  in  the  world, 


A    VISION   OF   DOOM.  19 

Named  in  another  tongue  than  his  for  one 
Ensainted,  saw  its  populous  domain 
Plague-smitten  with  a  nameless  shame.     For  there 
Red-handed  murder  rioted;  and  there 
The  people  gathered  gold,  nor  cared  to  loose 
The  assassin's  fingers  from  the  victim's  throat, 
But  said,  each  in  his  vile  pursuit  engrossed: 
'Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?    Let  the  Law 
Look  to  the  matter.'    But  the  Law  did  not. 
And  there,  O  pitiful!  the  babe  was  slain 
Within  its  mother's  breast  and  the  same  grave 
Held  babe  and  mother;  and  the  people  smiled, 
Still  gathering  gold,  and  said :  '  The  Law,  the  Law/ 
Then  the  great  poet,  touched  upon  the  lips 
With  a  live  coal  from  Truth's  high  altar,  raised 
His  arms  to  heaven  and  sang  a  song  of  doom — 
Sang  of  the  time  to  be,  when  God  should  lean 
Indignant  from  the  Throne  and  lift  his  hand, 
And  that  foul  city  be  no  more ! — a  tale, 
A  dream,  a  desolation  and  a  curse! 
No  vestige  of  its  glory  should  survive 
In  fact  or  memory :  its  people  dead, 
Its  site  forgotten,  and  its  very  name 
Disputed." 

"Was  the  prophecy  fulfilled?" 
The  sullen  disc  of  the  declining  sun 
Was  crimson  with  a  curse  and  a  portent, 
And  scarce  his  angry  ray  lit  up  the  land 


20  A    VISION  OF  DOOM. 

That  lay  below,  whose  lurid  gloom  appeared 
Freaked  with  a  moving  mist,  which,  reeking  up 
From  dim  tarns  hateful  with  a  horrid  ban, 
Took  shapes  forbidden  and  without  a  name. 
Gigantic  night-birds,  rising  from  the  reeds 
With  cries  discordant,  startled  all  the  air, 
And  bodiless  voices  babbled  in  the  gloom. 
But  not  to  me  came  any  voice  again ; 
And,  covering  my  face  with  thin,  dead  hands, 
I  wept,  and  woke,  and  cried  aloud  to  God! 


POLITICS.  21 


POLITICS. 

That  land  full  surely  hastens  to  its  end 
Where  public  sycophants  in  homage  bend 
The  populace  to  flatter,  and  repeat 
The  doubled  echoes  of  its  loud  conceit. 
Lowly  their  attitude  but  high  their  aim, 
They  creep  to  eminence  through  paths  of  shame, 
Till  fixed  securely  in  the  seats  of  pow'r, 
The  dupes  they  flattered  they  at  last  devour. 


22  FOESY. 


POESY. 

Successive  bards  pursue  Ambition's  fire 
That  shines,  Oblivion,  above  thy  mire. 
The  latest  mounts  his  predecessor's  trunk, 
And  sinks  his  brother  ere  himself  is  sunk. 
So  die  ingloriously  Fame's  elite, 
But  dams  of  dunces  keep  the  line  complete. 


IN  DEFENSE.  23 


IN  DEFENSE. 

You  may  say,  if  you  please,  Johnny  Bull,  that  our  girls 
Are  crazy  to  marry  your  dukes  and  your  earls ; 
But  I've  heard  that  the  maids  of  your  own  little  isle 
Greet  bachelor  lords  with  a  favoring  smile. 

Nay,  titles,  't  is  said  in  defense  of  our  fair, 
Are  popular  here  because  popular  there; 
And  for  them  our  ladies  persistently  go 
Because  't  is  exceedingly  English,  you  know. 

Whatever  the  motive,  you  '11  have  to  confess 
The  effort's  attended  with  easy  success ; 
And — pardon  the  freedom — 't  is  thought,  over  here, 
'T  is  mortification  you  mask  with  a  sneer. 

It 's  all  very  well,  sir,  your  scorn  to  parade 
Of  the  high  nasal  twang  of  the  Yankee  maid, 
But,  ah,  to  my  lord  when  he  dares  to  propose 
No  sound  is  so  sweet  as  that  "Yes"  from  the  nose. 

Our  ladies,  we  grant,  walk  alone  in  the  street 
(Observe,  by-the-by,  on  what  delicate  feet!) 
T  is  a  habit  they  got  here  at  home,  where  they  say 
The  men  from  politeness  go  seldom  astray. 


24  IN   DEFENSE. 

Ah,  well,  if  the  dukes  and  the  earls  and  that  lot 
Can  stand  it  (God  succor  them  if  they  cannot!) 
Your  commoners  ought  to  assent,  I  am  sure, 
And  what  they  're  not  called  on  to  suffer,  endure. 

"  *T  is    nothing    but    money  ? "     "  Your    nobles    are 

bought?" 

As  to  that,  I  submit,  it  is  commonly  thought 
That  England's  a  country  not  specially  free 
Of  Croesi  and  (if  you'll  allow  it)  Croesae. 

You  've  many  a  widow  and  many  a  girl 
With  money  to  purchase  a  duke  or  an  earl. 
'T  is  a  very  remarkable  thing,  you  '11  agree, 
When  goods  import  buyers  from  over  the  sea. 

Alas  for  the  woman  of  Albion's  isle! 
She  may  simper;  as  well  as  she  can  she  may  smile; 
She  may  wear  pantalettes  and  an  air  of  repose — 
But  my  lord  of  the  future  will  talk  through  his  nose. 


AN  INVOCATION.  25 


AN  INVOCATION. 

[Read  at  the   Celebration  of   Independence   Day   in   San 
Francisco,  in  1888.] 

Goddess  of  Liberty !  O  thou 

Whose  tearless  eyes  behold  the  chain, 
And  look  unmoved  upon  the  slain, 

Eternal  peace  upon  thy  brow, — 

Before  thy  shrine  the  races  press, 
Thy  perfect  favor  to  implore — 
The  proudest  tyrant  asks  no  more, 

The  ironed  anarchist  no  less. 

Thine  altar-coals  that  touch  the  lips 
Of  prophets  kindle,  too,  the  brand 
By  Discord  flung  with  wanton  hand 

Among  the  houses  and  the  ships. 

Upon  thy  tranquil  front  the  star 

Burns  bleak  and  passionless  and  white, 
Its  cold  inclemency  of  light 

More  dreadful  than  the  shadows  are. 


26  AN  INVOCATION. 

Thy  name  we  do  not  here  invoke 
Our  civic  rites  to  sanctify : 
Enthroned  in  thy  remoter  sky, 

Thou  heedest  not  our  broken  yoke. 

Thou  carest  not  for  such  as  we : 
Our  millions  die  to  serve  the  still 
And  secret  purpose  of  thy  will. 

They  perish — what  is  that  to  thee? 

The  light  that  fills  the  patriot's  tomb 
Is  not  of  thee.     The  shining  crown 
Compassionately  offered  down 

To  those  who  falter  in  the  gloom, 

And  fall,  and  call  upon  thy  name, 
And  die  desiring — 't  is  the  sign 
Of  a  diviner  love  than  thine, 

Rewarding  with  a  richer  fame. 

To  him  alone  let  freemen  cry 

Who  hears  alike  the  victor's  shout, 
The  song  of  faith,  the  moan  of  doubt, 

And  bends  him  from  his  nearer  sky. 

God  of  my  country  and  my  race ! 
So  greater  than  the  gods  of  old — 
So  fairer  than  the  prophets  told 

Who  dimly  saw  and  feared  thy  face, — 


AN  INVOCATION.  27 

Who  didst  but  half  reveal  thy  will 
And  gracious  ends  to  their  desire, 
Behind  the  dawn's  advancing  fire 

Thy  tender  day-beam  veiling  still, — 

To  whom  the  unceasing  suns  belong, 
And  cause  is  one  with  consequence, — 
To  whose  divine,  inclusive  sense 

The  moan  is  blended  with  the  song, — 

Whose  laws,  imperfect  and  unjust, 
Thy  just  and  perfect  purpose  serve: 
The  needle,  howsoe'er  it  swerve, 

Still  warranting  the  sailor's  trust, — 

God,  lift  thy  hand  and  make  us  free 
To  crown  the  work  thou  hast  designed. 
O,  strike  away  the  chains  that  bind 

Our  souls  to  one  idolatry! 

The  liberty  thy  love  hath  given 

We  thank  thee  for.    We  thank  thee  for 
Our  great  dead  fathers'  holy  war 

Wherein  our  manacles  were  riven. 

We  thank  thee  for  the  stronger  stroke 
Ourselves  delivered  and  incurred 
When — thine  incitement  half  unheard — 

The  chains  we  riveted  we  broke. 


28  AN  INVOCATION. 

We  thank  thee  that  beyond  the  sea 
The  people,  growing  ever  wise, 
Turn  to  the  west  their  serious  eyes 

And  dumbly  strive  to  be  as  we. 

As  when  the  sun's  returning  flame 
Upon  the  Nileside  statue  shone, 
And  struck  from  the  enchanted  stone 

The  music  of  a  mighty  fame, 

Let  Man  salute  the  rising  day 

Of  Liberty,  but  not  adore. 

'T  is  Opportunity — no  more — 
A  useful,  not  a  sacred,  ray. 

It  bringeth  good,  it  bringeth  ill, 

As  he  possessing  shall  elect. 

He  maketh  it  of  none  effect 
Who  walketh  not  within  thy  will. 

Give  thou  or  more  or  less,  as  we 

Shall  serve  the  right  or  serve  the  wrong. 
Confirm  our  freedom  but  so  long 

As  we  are  worthy  to  be  free. 

But  when  (O,  distant  be  the  time!) 
Majorities  in  passion  draw 
Insurgent  swords  to  murder  Law, 

And  all  the  land  is  red  with  crime ; 


AN   INVOCATION.  29 

Or — nearer  menace! — when  the  band 
Of  feeble  spirits  cringe  and  plead 
To  the  gigantic  strength  of  Greed, 

And  fawn  upon  his  iron  hand; — 

Nay,  when  the  steps  to  state  are  worn 
In  hollows  by  the  feet  of  thieves, 
And  Mammon  sits  among  the  sheaves 

And  chuckles  while  the  reapers  mourn; 

Then  stay  thy  miracle! — replace 

The  broken  throne,  repair  the  chain, 
Restore  the  interrupted  reign 

And  veil  again  thy  patient  face. 

Lo!  here  upon  the  world's  extreme 
We  stand  with  lifted  arms  and  dare 
By  thine  eternal  name  to  swear 

Our  country,  which  so  fair  we  deem — 

Upon  whose  hills,  a  bannered  throng, 
The  spirits  of  the  sun  display 
Their  flashing  lances  day  by  day 

And  hear  the  sea's  pacific  song — 

Shall  be  so  ruled  in  right  and  grace 
That  men  shall  say :    "  O,  drive  afield 
The  lawless  eagle  from  the  shield, 

And  call  an  angel  to  the  place !  " 


30  RELIGION. 


RELIGION. 

Hassan  Bedreddin,  clad  in  rags,  ill-shod, 
Sought  the  great  temple  of  the  living  God. 

The  worshippers  arose  and  drove  him  forth, 
And  one  in  power  beat  him  with  a  rod. 

"  Allah,"  he  cried,  "  thou  seest  what  I  got ; 
Thy  servants  bar  me  from  the  sacred  spot." 

"  Be  comforted,"  the  Holy  One  replied  ; 
"  It  is  the  only  place  where  I  am  not." 


A   MORNING   FANCY.  31 


A  MORNING  FANCY. 

I  drifted  (or  I  seemed  to)  in  a  boat 

Upon  the  surface  of  a  shoreless  sea 
Whereon  no  ship  nor  anything  did  float, 

Save  only  the  frail  bark  supporting  me ; 

And  that — it  was  so  shadowy — seemed  to  be 
Almost  from  out  the  very  vapors  wrought 

Of  the  great  ocean  underneath  its  keel ; 
And  all  that  blue  profound  appeared  as  naught 

But  thicker  sky,  translucent  to  reveal, 
Miles  down,  whatever  through  its  spaces  glided, 
Or  at  the  bottom  traveled  or  abided. 

Great  cities  there  I  saw — of  rich  and  poor, 
The  palace  and  the  hovel;  mountains,  vales, 

Forest  and  field,  the  desert  and  the  moor, 

Tombs  of  the  good  and  wise  who'd  lived  in  jails, 
And  seas  of  denser  fluid,  white  with  sails 

Pushed  at  by  currents  moving  here  and  there 
And  sensible  to  sight  above  the  flat 

Of  that  opaquer  deep.    Ah,  strange  and  fair 
The  nether  world  that  I  was  gazing  at 

With  beating  heart  from  that  exalted  level, 

And — lest  I  founder — trembling  like  the  devil! 


32  A   MORNING   FANCY. 

The  cities  all  were  populous :  men  swarmed 
In  public  places — chattered,  laughed  and  wept; 

And  savages  their  shining  bodies  warmed 

At  fires  in  primal  woods.    The  wild  beast  leapt 
Upon  its  prey  and  slew  it  as  it  slept. 

Armies  went  forth  to  battle  on  the  plain 
So  far,  far  down  in  that  unfathomed  deep 

The  living  seemed  as  silent  as  the  slain, 

Nor  even  the  widows  could  be  heard  to  weep. 

One  might  have  thought  their  shaking  was  but 
laughter ; 

And,  truly,  most  were  married  shortly  after. 

Above  the  wreckage  of  that  silent  fray 

Strange    fishes    swam    in    circles,    round    and 
round — 

Black,  double-finned;  and  once  a  little  way 
A  bubble  rose  and  burst  without  a  sound 
And  a  man  tumbled  out  upon  the  ground. 

Lord !  't  was  an  eerie  thing  to  drift  apace 
On  that  pellucid  sea,  beneath  black  skies 

And  o'er  the  heads  of  an  undrowning  race ; 
And  when  I  woke  I  said — to  her  surprise 

Who  came  with  chocolate,  for  me  to  drink  it: 

"  The  atmosphere  is  deeper  than  you  think  it." 


VISIONS   OF   SIN.  33 


VISIONS    OF   SIN. 

KRASLAJORSK,   SIBERIA,   March  29. 
"My  eyes  are  better,  and  I  shall  travel  slowly  toward 

home." 

DANENHOWER. 

From  the  regions  of  the  Night, 
Coming  with  recovered  sight — 
From  the  spell  of  darkness  free, 
What  will  Danenhower  see? 

He  will  see  when  he  arrives, 
Doctors  taking  human  lives. 
He  will  see  a  learned  judge 
Whose  decision  will  not  budge 
Till  both  litigants  are  fleeced 
And  his  palm  is  duly  greased. 
Lawyers  he  will  see  who  fight 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night ; 
Never  both  upon  a  side, 
Though  their  fees  they  still  divide. 
Preachers  he  will  see  who  teach 
That  it  is  divine  to  preach — 
That  they  fan  a  sacred  fire 
And  are  worthy  of  their  hire. 
He  will  see  a  trusted  wife 


34  VISIONS   OF   SIN. 

(Pride  of  some  good  husband's  life) 

Enter  at  a  certain  door 

And — but  he  will  see  no  more. 

He  will  see  Good  Templars  reel — 

See  a  prosecutor  steal, 

And  a  father  beat  his  child. 

He  '11  perhaps  see  Oscar  Wilde. 

From  the  regions  of  the  Night 
Coming  with  recovered  sight — 
From  the  bliss  of  blindness  free, 
That 's  what  Danenhower  '11  see. 

1882. 


THE   TOWN   OF  DM.  35 


THE  TOWN  OF  DJE. 

Swains  and  maidens,  young  and  old, 
You  to  me  this  tale  have  told. 

Where  the  squalid  town  of  Dse 
Irks  the  comfortable  sea, 
Spreading  webs  to  gather  fish, 
As  for  wealth  we  set  a  wish, 
Dwelt  a  king  by  right  divine, 
Sprung  from  Adam's  royal  line, 
Town  of  Dse  by  the  sea, 
Divers  kinds  of  kings  there  be. 

Name  nor  fame  had  Picklepip : 
Ne'er  a  soldier  nor  a  ship 
Bore  his  banners  in  the  sun; 

Naught  knew  he  of  kingly  sport, 

And  he  held  his  royal  court 
Under  an  inverted  tun. 
Love  and  roses,  ages  through, 

Bloom  where  cot  and  trellis  stand; 
Never  yet  these  blossoms  grew — 
Never  yet  was  room  for  two — 

In  a  cask  upon  the  strand. 


36  THE    TOWN   OF   DIE. 

So  it  happened,  as  it  ought, 

That  his  simple  schemes  he  wrought 

Through  the  lagging  summer's  day 

In  a  solitary  way. 

So  it  happened,  as  was  best, 

That  he  took  his  nightly  rest 

With  no  dreadful  incubus 
This  way  eyed  and  that  way  tressed, 

Featured  thus,  and  thus,  and  thus, 
Lying  lead-like  on  a  breast 
By  cares  of  State  enough  oppressed. 
Yet  in  dreams  his  fancies  rude 
Claimed  a  lordly  latitude. 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
Dreamers  mate  above  their  state 

And  waken  back  to  their  degree. 

Once  to  cask  himself  away 
He  prepared  at  close  of  day. 
As  he  tugged  with  swelling  throat 
At  a  most  unkingly  coat — 
Not  to  get  it  off,  but  on, 
For  the  serving  sun  was  gone — 
Passed  a  silk-appareled  sprite 
Toward  her  castle  on  the  height, 
Seized  and  set  the  garment  right. 
Turned  the  startled  Picklepip — 
Splendid  crimson  cheek  and  lip! 
Turned  again  to  sneak  away, 


THE    TOWN   OF   DM,  37 

But  she  bade  the  villain  stay, 
Bade  him  thank  her,  which  he  did 
With  a  speech  that  slipped  and  slid, 
Sprawled  and  stumbled  in  its  gait 
As  a  dancer  tries  to  skate. 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
In  the  face  of  silk  and  lace 

Rags  too  bold  should  never  be. 

Lady  Minnow  cocked  her  head: 
"  Mister  Picklepip,"  she  said, 
"  Do  you  ever  think  to  wed  ?  " 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
No  fair  lady  ever  made  a 

Wicked  speech  like  that  to  me! 

t 

Wretched  little  Picklepip 
Said  he  had  n't  any  ship, 
Any  flocks  at  his  command, 
Nor  to  feed  them  any  land; 
Said  he  never  in  his  life 
Owned  a  mine  to  keep  a  wife. 
But  the  guilty  stammer  so 
That  his  meaning  would  n't  flow ; 
So  he  thought  his  aim  to  reach 
By  some  figurative  speech: 
Said  his  Fate  had  been  unkind 
Had  pursued  him  from  behind 
(How  the  mischief  could  it  else? 


38  THE    TOWN   OF   DIE. 

Came  upon  him  unaware, 
Caught  him  by  the  collar — there 
Gushed  the  little  lady's  glee 

Like  a  gush  of  golden  bells : 
"  Picklepip,  why,  that  is  me!" 

Town  of  Dse  by  the  sea, 
Grammar  's  for  great  scholars — she 

Loved  the  summer  and  the  lea. 

Stupid  little  Picklepip 
Allowed  the  subtle  hint  to  slip — 
Maundered  on  about  the  ship 
That  he  did  not  chance  to  own; 

Told  this  grievance  o'er  and  o'er, 

Knowing  that  she  knew  before ; 
Told  her  how  he  dwelt  alone. 
Lady  Minnow,  for  reply, 
Cut  him  off  with  "  So  do  I !  " 
But  she  reddened  at  the  fib; 
Servitors  had  she,  ad  lib. 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
In  her  youth  who  speaks  no  truth 

Ne'er  shall  young  and  honest  be. 

Witless  little  Picklepip 
Manned  again  his  mental  ship 
And  veered  her  with  a  sudden  shift. 
Painted  to  the  lady's  thought 
How  he  wrestled  and  he  wrought 


THE   TOWN   OF  D2E.  39 

Stoutly  with  the  swimming  drift 

By  the  kindly  river  brought 
From  the  mountain  to  the  sea, 
Fuel  for  the  town  of  Dae. 
Tedious  tale  for  lady's  ear: 

From  her  castle  on  the  height, 

She  had  watched  her  water-knight 
Through  the  seasons  of  a  year, 
Challenge  more  than  met  his  view 
And  conquer  better  than  he  knew. 
Now  she  shook  her  pretty  pate 
And  stamped  her  foot — 't  was  growing  late : 
"  Mister  Picklepip,  when  I 
Drifting  seaward  pass  you  by; 
When  the  waves  my  forehead  kiss 

And  my  tresses  float  above — 

Dead  and  drowned  for  lack  of  love — 
You  '11  be  sorry,  sir,  for  this !  " 
And  the  silly  creature  cried — 
Feared,  perchance,  the  rising  tide. 

Town  of  Dse  by  the  sea, 
Madam  Adam,  when  she  had  'em, 

May  have  been  as  bad  as  she. 

Fiat  lux!    Love's  lumination 
Fell  in  floods  of  revelation! 
Blinded  brain  by  world  aglare, 
Sense  of  pulses  in  the  air, 


40  THE    TOWN   OF  DIE. 

Sense  of  swooning  and  the  beating 
Of  a  voice  somewhere  repeating 
Something  indistinctly  heard ! 

And  the  soul  of  Picklepip 

Sprang  upon  his  trembling  lip, 
But  he  spake  no  further  word 
Of  the  wealth  he  did  not  own ; 
In  that  moment  had  outgrown 
Ship  and  mine  and  flock  and  land- 
Even  his  cask  upon  the  strand. 
Dropped  a  stricken  star  to  earth, 
Type  of  wealth  and  worldly  worth. 
Clomb  the  moon  into  the  sky, 
Type  of  love's  immensity! 
Shaking  silver  seemed  the  sea, 
Throne  of  God  the  town  of  Dae! 

Town  of  Das  by  the  sea, 
From  above  there  cometh  love, 

Blessing  all  good  souls  that  be. 


AN   ANARCHIST.  41 


AN  ANARCHIST. 

False  to  his  art  and  to  the  high  command 
God  laid  upon  him,  Markham's  rebel  hand 
Beats  all  in  vain  the  harp  he  touched  before : 
It  yields  a  jingle  and  it  yields  no  more. 
No  more  the  strings  beneath  his  finger-tips 
Sing  harmonies  divine.     No  more  his  lips, 
Touched  with  a  living  coal  from  sacred  fires, 
Lead  the  sweet  chorus  of  the  golden  wires. 
The  voice  is  raucous  and  the  phrases  squeak; 
They  labor,  they  complain,  they  sweat,  they  reek! 
The  more  the  wayward,  disobedient  song 
Errs  from  the  right  to  celebrate  the  wrong, 
More  diligently  still  the  singer  strums, 
To  drown  the  horrid  sound,  with  all  his  thumbs. 
Gods,  what  a  spectacle !    The  angels  lean 
Out  of  high  Heaven  to  view  the  sorry  scene, 
And  Israfel,  "whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute," 
Though  now  compassion  makes  their  music  mute, 
Among  the  weeping  company  appears, 
Pearls  in  his  eyes  and  cotton  in  his  ears. 


42  AN   OFFER    OF   MARRIAGE. 


AN  OFFER  OF  MARRIAGE. 

Once  I  "dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could 

see/' 
And  saw — it  was  not  Sandow,  nor  John  Sullivan,  but 

she— 
The  Emancipated  Woman,  who  was  weeping  as  she 

ran 

Here  and  there  for  the  discovery  of  Expurgated  Man. 
But  the  sun  of  Evolution  ever  rose  and  ever  set, 
And  that  tardiest  of  mortals  hadn't  evoluted  yet. 
Hence  the  tears  that  she  cascaded,  hence  the  sighs  that 

tore  apart 

All  the  tendinous  connections  of  her  indurated  heart. 
Cried  Emancipated  Woman,  as  she  wearied  of  the 

search : 
"  In  Advancing  I  have  left  myself  distinctly  in  the 

lurch! 
Seeking  still  a  worthy  partner,  from  the  land  of  brutes 

and  dudes 

I  have  penetrated  rashly  into  manless  solitudes. 
Now  without  a  mate  of  any  kind  where  am  I  ? — that's 

to  say, 

Where  shall  I  be  to-morrow? — where  exert  my  right- 
ful sway 


AN   OFFER   OF   MARRIAGE.  43 

And  the  purifying  strength  of  my  emancipated  mind? 

Can  solitude  be  lifted  up,  vacuity  refined? 

Calling,  calling  from  the  shadows  in  the  rear  of  my 

Advance — 
From  the  Region  of  Unprogress  in  the  Dark  Domain 

of  Chance — 

Long  I  heard  the  Unevolvable  beseeching  my  return 
To  share  the  degradation  he  's  reluctant  to  unlearn. 
But  I  fancy  I  detected — though  I  pray  it  was  n't  that — 
A  low  reverberation,  like  an  echo  in  a  hat. 
So  I  've  held  my  way  regardless,  evoluting  year  by 

year, 
Till  I  'm  what  you  now  behold  me — or  would  if  you 

were  here — 

A  condensed  Emancipation  and  a  Purifier  proud 
An  Independent  Entity  appropriately  loud ! 
Independent?     Yes,  in  spirit,  but   (O,  woful,  woful 

state!) 
Doomed  to  premature   extinction  by  privation   of  a 

mate — 

To  extinction  or  reversion,  for  Unexpurgated  Man 
Still  awaits  me  in  the  backward  if  I  sicken  of  the  van. 
O  the  horrible  dilemma! — to  be  odiously  linked 
With   an   Undeveloped    Species,   or   become   a   Type 

Extinct!" 

As  Emancipated  Woman  wailed  her  sorrow  to  the  air, 
Stalking  out  of  desolation  came  a  being  strange  and 
rare — 


44  AN   OFFER    OF   MARRIAGE. 

Plato's  Man! — bipedal,  featherless  from  mandible  to 

rump, 
Its  wings  two  quilless  flippers  and  its  tail  a  plumeless 

stump. 

First  it  scratched  and  then  it  clucked,  as  if  in  hospita- 
ble terms 

It  invited  her  to  banquet  on  imaginary  worms. 
Then  it  strutted  up  before  her  with  a  lifting  of  the 

head, 

And  in  accents  of  affection  and  of  sympathy  it  said: 
"  My  estate  is  some  'at  'umble,  but  I  'm  qualified  to 

draw 
Near  the  hymeneal  altar  and  whack  up  my  heart  and 

claw 

To  Emancipated  Anything  as  walks  upon  the  earth ; 
And  them  things  is  at  your  service  for  whatever  they 

are  worth. 
I  'm  sure  to  be  congenial,  marm,  nor  e'er  deserve  a 

scowl — 
I  'm  Emancipated  Rooster,  I  am  Expurgated  Fowl !  " 

From  the  future  and  its  wonders  I  withdrew  my  gaze, 

and  then 
Wrote  this  wild  unfestive  prophecy  about  the  Coming 

Hen. 


ARMA    VIRUMQUE.  45 


ARMA  VIRUMQUE. 

"  Ours  is  a  Christian  Army  " ;  so  he  said 
A  regiment  of  bangomen  who  led. 
"And  ours  a  Christian  Navy,"  added  he 
Who  sailed  a  thunder- junk  upon  the  sea. 
Better  they  know  than  men  unwarlike  do 
What  is  an  army  and  a  navy,  too. 
Pray  God  there  may  be  sent  them  by-and-by 
The  knowledge  what  a  Christian  is,  and  why. 
For  somewhat  lamely  the  conception  runs 
Of  a  brass-buttoned  Jesus  firing  guns. 


46  ON  A   PROPOSED   CREMATORY. 


ON  A  PROPOSED  CREMATORY. 

When  a  fair  bridge  is  builded  o'er  the  gulf 
Between  two  cities,  some  ambitious  fool, 
Hot  for  distinction,  pleads  for  earliest  leave 
To  push  his  clumsy  feet  upon  the  span, 
That  men  in  after  years  may  single  him, 
Saying :  "  Behold  the  fool  who  first  went  o'er !  " 
So  be  it  when,  as  now  the  promise  is, 
Next  summer  sees  the  edifice  complete 
Which  some  do  name  a  crematorium, 
Within  the  vantage  of  whose  greater  maw's 
Quicker  digestion  we  shall  cheat  the  worm 
And  circumvent  the  handed  mole  who  loves, 
With  tunnel,  adit,  drift  and  roomy  stope, 
To  mine  our  mortal  parts  in  all  their  dips 
And  spurs  and  angles.    Let  the  fool  stand  forth 
To  link  his  name  with  this  fair  enterprise, 
As  first  decarcassed  by  the  flame.    And  if 
With  rival  greedings  for  the  fiery  fame 
They  push  in  clamoring  multitudes,  or  if 
With  unaccustomed  modesty  they  all 
Hold  off,  being  something  loth  to  qualify, 
Let  me  select  the  fittest  for  the  rite. 
By  heaven !    I  '11  make  so  warrantable,  wise 


OAT   A   PROPOSED   CREMATORY.  47 

And  excellent  censure  of  their  true  deserts, 
And  such  a  searching  canvass  of  their  claims, 
That  none  shall  bait  the  ballot.     I'll  spread  my 

choice 

Upon  the  main  and  general  of  those 
Who,  moved  of  holy  impulse,  pulpit-born, 
Protested  't  were  a  sacrilege  to  burn 
God's  gracious  images,  designed  to  rot, 
And  bellowed  for  the  right  of  way  for  each 
Distempered  carrion  through  the  water  pipes. 
With  such  a  sturdy,  boisterous  exclaim 
They  did  discharge  themselves   from  their  own 

throats 

Against  the  splintered  gates  of  audience 
'T  were  wholsesomer  to  take  them  in  at  mouth 
Than  ear.    These  shall  burn  first :  their  ignible 
And  seasoned  substances — trunks,  legs  and  arms, 
Blent  indistinguishable  in  a  mass, 
Like  winter-woven  serpents  in  a  pit — 
None  vantaged  of  his  fellow-fools  in  point 
Of  precedence,  and  all  alive — shall  serve 
As  fueling  to  fervor  the  retort 
For  after  cineration  of  true  men. 


48  A   DEMAND. 


A  DEMAND. 

You  promised  to  paint  me  a  picture, 

Dear  Mat, 

And  I  was  to  pay  you  in  rhyme. 
Although  I  am  loth  to  inflict  your 

Most  easy  of  consciences,  I  'm 
Of  opinion  that  fibbing  is  awful, 
And  breaking  a  contract  unlawful, 
Indictable,  too,  as  a  crime, 
A  slight  and  all  that. 

If,  Lady  Unbountiful,  any 

Of  that 

By  mortals  called  pity  has  part 
In  your  obdurate  soul — if  a  penny 

You  care  for  the  health  of  my  heart, 
By  performing  your  undertaking 
You  '11  succor  that  organ  from  breaking- 
And  spare  it  for  some  new  smart, 
As  puss  does  a  rat. 


A   DEMAND.  49 

Do  you  think  it  is  very  becoming, 

Dear  Mat, 

To  deny  me  my  rights  evermore 
And — bless  you!  if  I  begin  summing 

Your  sins  they  will  make  a  long  score! 
You  never  were  generous,  madam, 
If  you  had  been  Eve  and  I  Adam 

You  'd  have  given  me  naught  but  the  core, 
And  little  of  that. 

Had  I  been  content  with  a  Titian, 

A  cat 

By  Landseer,  a  meadow  by  Claude, 
No  doubt  I  'd  have  had  your  permission 

To  take  it — by  purchase  abroad. 
But  why  should  I  sail  o'er  the  ocean 
For  Landseers  and  Claudes  ?   I  've  a  notion 
All 's  bad  that  the  critics  belaud. 
I  wanted  a  Mat. 

Presumption  's  a  sin,  and  I  suffer 

For  that : 

But  still  you  did  say  that  sometime, 
If  I  'd  pay  you  enough  (here  's  enougher — 

That 's  more  than  enough)  of  rhyme 
You  'd  paint  me  a  picture.    I  pay  you 
Hereby  in  advance ;  and  I  pray  you 
Condone,  while  you  can,  your  crime, 
And  send  me  a  Mat. 


SO  A  DEMAND. 

But  if  you  don't  do  it  I  warn  you, 

Dear  Mat, 

I  '11  raise  such  a  clamor  and  cry 
On  Parnassus  the  Muses  will  scorn  you 

As  mocker  of  poets  and  fly 
With  bitter  complaints  to  Apollo: 
"  Her  spirit  is  proud,  her  heart  hollow, 
Her  beauty"— they '11  hardly  deny, 
On  second  thought,  that! 


THE    WEATHER    WIGHT.  51 


THE  WEATHER  WIGHT. 

The  way  was  long,  the  hill  was  steep, 
My  footing  scarcely  I  could  keep. 

The  night  enshrouded  me  in  gloom, 
I  heard  the  ocean's  distant  boom — 

The  trampling  of  the  surges  vast 
Was  borne  upon  the  rising  blast. 

"  God  help  the  mariner,"  I  cried, 

"  Whose  ship  to-morrow  braves  the  tide !  " 

Then  from  the  impenetrable  dark 
A  solemn  voice  made  this  remark: 

"  For  this  locality — warm,  bright ; 
Barometer  unchanged;  breeze  light." 

"  Unseen  consoler-man,"  I  cried, 
"  Whoe'er  you  are,  where'er  abide, 

"  Thanks — but  my  care  is  somewhat  less 
For  Jack's,  than  for  my  own,  distress. 


52  THE    WEATHER    WIGHT. 

"  Could  I  but  find  a  friendly  roof, 
Small  odds  what  weather  were  aloof. 

"  For  he  whose  comfort  is  secure 
Another's  woes  can  well  endure." 

"  The  latch-string  's  out,"  the  voice  replied, 
"  And  so  's  the  door — jes'  step  inside." 

Then  through  the  darkness  I  discerned 
A  hovel,  into  which  I  turned. 

Groping  about  beneath  its  thatch, 
I  struck  my  head  and  then  a  match. 

A  candle  by  that  gleam  betrayed 
Soon  lent  paraffinaceous  aid. 

A  pallid,  bald  and  thin  old  man 
I  saw,  who  this  complaint  began : 

"  Through  summer  suns  and  winter  snows 
I  sets  observin'  of  my  toes. 

"  I  rambles  with  increasin'  pain 
The  path  of  duty,  but  in  vain. 

"  Rewards  and  honors  pass  me  by — 
No  Congress  hears  this  raven  cry ! " 


THE    WEATHER    WIGHT.  53 

Filled  with  astonishment,  I  spoke: 
"  Thou  ancient  raven,  why  this  croak  ? 

"  With  observation  of  your  toes 

What  Congress  has  to  do,  Heaven  knows ! 

"And  swallow  me  if  e'er  I  knew 
That  one  could  sit  and  ramble  too !  " 

To  answer  me  that  ancient  swain 
Took  up  his  parable  again: 

"  Through  winter  snows  and  summer  suns 
A  Weather  Bureau  here  I  runs. 

"  I  calls  the  turn,  and  can  declare 

Jes'  when  she  '11  storm  and  when  she  '11  fair. 

"  Three  times  a  day  I  sings  out  clear 
The  probs  to  all  which  wants  to  hear. 

"  Some  weather  stations  run  with  light 
Frivolity  is  seldom  right. 

"A  scientist  from  times  remote, 
In  Scienceville  my  birth  is  wrote. 

"And  when  I  h'ist  the  'rainy'  sign 
Jes'  take  your  clo'es  in  off  the  line." 


54  THE    WEATHER    WIGHT. 

"  Not  mine,  O  marvelous  old  man, 
The  methods  of  your  art  to  scan, 

"  Yet  here  no  instruments  there  be — 
Nor  'ometer  nor  'scope  I  see. 

"Did  you  (if  questions  you  permit) 
At  the  asylum  leave  your  kit  ?  " 

That  strange  old  man  with  motion  rude 
Grew  to  surprising  altitude. 

"  Tools  (and  sarcazzems  too)  I  scorns — 
I  tells  the  weather  by  my  corns. 

"  No  doors  and  windows  here  you  see — 
The  wind  and  m'isture  enters  free. 

"  No  fires  nor  lights,  no  wool  nor  fur 
Here  falsifies  the  tempercher. 

"  My  corns  unleathered  I  expose 
To  feel  the  rain's  foretellin'  throes. 

"  No  stockin'  from  their  ears  keeps  out 
The  comin'  tempest's  warnin'  shout. 

"  Sich  delicacy  some  has  got 

They  know  next  summer  's  to  be  hot. 


THE    WEATHER    WIGHT.  55 

"  This  here  one  says  (for  that  he 's  best)  : 
'Storm  center  passin'  to  the  west.' 

"  This  feller's  vitals  is  transfixed 
With  frost  for  Janawary  sixt'. 

"  One  chap  jes'  now  is  occy'pied 
In  fig'rin  on  next  Fridy's  tide. 

"  I  Ve  shaved  this  cuss  so  thin  and  true 
He  '11  spot  a  fog  in  South  Peru. 

"  Sech  are  my  tools,  which  ne'er  a  swell 
Observatory  can  excel. 

"  By  long  a-studyin'  their  throbs 
I  catches  onto  all  the  probs." 

Much  more,  no  doubt,  he  would  have  said, 
But  suddenly  he  turned  and  fled; 

For  in  mine  eye's  indignant  green 
Lay  storms  that  he  had  not  foreseen, 

Till  all  at  once,  with  silent  squeals, 

His  toes  "caught  on"  and  told  his  heels. 


S6  T.   A.   H. 


T.  A.  H. 

Yes,  he  was  that,  or  that,  as  you  prefer — 

Did  so  and  so,  though,  faith,  it  was  n't  all ; 

Lived  like  a  fool,  or  a  philosopher, 

And  had  whatever  's  needful  for  a  fall. 

As  rough  inflections  on  a  planet  merge 

In  the  true  bend  of  the  gigantic  sphere, 

Nor  mar  the  perfect  circle  of  its  verge, 

So  in  the  survey  of  his  worth  the  small 

Asperities  of  spirit  disappear, 

Lost  in  the  grander  curves  of  character. 

He  lately  was  hit  hard:  none  knew  but  I 

The  strength  and  terror  of  that  ghastly  stroke — 

Not  even  herself.    He  uttered  not  a  cry, 

But  set  his  teeth  and  made  a  revelry; 

Drank  like  a  devil — staining  sometimes  red 

The  goblet's  edge ;  diced  with  his  conscience ;  spread, 

Like  Sisyphus,  a  feast  for  Death,  and  spoke 

His  welcome  in  a  tongue  so  long  forgot 

That  even  his  ancient  guest  remembered  not 

What  race  had  cursed  him  in  it.    Thus  my  friend 

Still  conjugating  with  each  failing  sense 

The  verb  "to  die"  in  every  mood  and  tense, 

Pursued  his  awful  humor  to  the  end. 

When  like  a  stormy  dawn  the  crimson  broke 

From  his  white  lips  he  smiled  and  mutely  bled, 

And,  having  meanly  lived,  is  grandly  dead. 


MY   MONUMENT.  57 


MY  MONUMENT. 

It  is  pleasant  to  think,  as  I  'm  watching  my  ink 

A-drying  along  my  paper, 
That  a  monument  fine  will  surely  be  mine 

When  death  has  extinguished  my  taper. 

From  each  rhyming  scribe  of  the  journalist  tribe 
Purged  clean  of  all  sentiments  narrow, 

A  pebble  will  mark  his  respect  for  the  stark 
Stiff  body  that 's  under  the  barrow. 

By  fellow-bards  thrown,  thus  stone  upon  stone 

Will  make  my  celebrity  deathless. 
O,  I  wish  I  could  think,  as  I  gaze  at  my  ink, 

They  'd  wait  till  my  carcass  is  breathless. 


58  MAD. 


MAD. 


O  ye  who  push  and  fight 
To  hear  a  wanton  sing — 

Who  utter  the  delight 

That  has  the  bogus  ring, — 

O  men  mature  in  years, 
In  understanding  young, 

The  membranes  of  whose  ears 
She  tickles  with  her  tongue, — 

O  wives  and  daughters  sweet, 

Who  call  it  love  of  art 
To  kiss  a  woman's  feet 

That  crush  a  woman's  heart,— 

O  prudent  dams  and  sires, 
Your  docile  young  who  bring 

To  see  how  man  admires 
A  sinner  if  she  sing, — 

O  husbands  who  impart 
To  each  assenting  spouse 

The  lesson  that  shall  start 

The  buds  upon  your  brows, — 


MAD.  59 


All  whose  applauding  hands 
Assist  to  rear  the  fame 

That  throws  o'er  all  the  lands 
The  shadow  of  its  shame, — 

Go  drag  her  car ! — the  mud 
Through  which  its  axle  rolls 

Is  partly  human  blood 
And  partly  human  souls. 

Mad,  mad! — your  senses  whirl 
Like  devils  dancing  free, 

Because  a  strolling  girl 
Can  hold  the  note  high  C. 

For  this  the  avenging  rod 
Of  Heaven  ye  dare  defy, 

And  tear  the  law  that  God 
Thundered  from  Sinai! 


60  HOSPITALITY. 


HOSPITALITY. 

Why  ask  me,  Gastrogogue,  to  dine 
(Unless  to  praise  your  rascal  wine) 
Yet  never  ask  some  luckless  sinner 
Who  needs,  as  I  do  not,  a  dinner? 


FOR   A    CERTAIN   CRITIC.  61 


FOR  A  CERTAIN  CRITIC. 

Let  lowly  themes  engage  my  humble  pen — 

Stupidities  of  critics,  not  of  men. 

Be  it  mine  once  more  the  maunderings  to  trace 

Of  the  expounders'  self-directed  race — 

Their  wire-drawn  fancies,  finically  fine, 

Of  diligent  vacuity  the  sign. 

Let  them  in  jargon  of  their  trade  rehearse 

The  moral  meaning  of  the  random  verse 

That  runs  spontaneous  from  the  poet's  pen 

To  be  half -blotted  by  ambitious  men 

Who  hope  with  his  their  meaner  names  to  link 

By  writing  o'er  it  in  another  ink 

The  thoughts  unreal  which  they  think  they  think, 

Until  the  mental  eye  in  vain  inspects 

The  hateful  palimpsest  to  find  the  text. 

The  lark  ascending  heavenward,  loud  and  long 
Sings  to  the  dawning  day  his  wanton  song. 
The  moaning  dove,  attentive  to  the  sound, 
Its  hidden  meaning  hastens  to  expound : 
Explains  its  principles,  design — in  brief, 
Pronounces  it  a  parable  of  grief ! 


62  FOR   A    CERTAIN   CRITIC. 

The  bee,  just  pausing  ere  he  daubs  his  thigh 
With  pollen  from  a  hollyhock  near  by, 
Declares  he  never  heard  in  terms  so  just 
The  labor  problem  thoughtfully  discussed! 
The  browsing  ass  looks  up  and  clears  his  whistle 
To  say :     "A  monologue  upon  the  thistle !  " 
Meanwhile  the  lark,  descending,  folds  his  wing 
And  innocently  asks:     "What!— did  I  sing?" 

O  literary  parasites !  who  thrive 

Upon  the  fame  of  better  men,  derive 

Your  sustenance  by  suction,  like  a  leech, 

And,  for  you  preach  of  them,  think  masters  preach, — 

Who  find  it  half  is  profit,  half  delight, 

To  write  about  what  you  could  never  write, — 

Consider,  pray,  how  sharp  had  been  the  throes 

Of  famine  and  discomfiture  in  those 

You  write  of  if  they  had  been  critics,  too, 

And  doomed  to  write  of  nothing  but  of  you! 

Lo !  where  the  gaping  crowd  throngs  yonder  tent, 

To  see  the  lion  resolutely  bent ! 

The  prosing  showman  who  the  beast  displays 

Grows  rich  and  richer  daily  in  its  praise. 

But  how  if,  to  attract  the  curious  yeoman, 

The  lion  owned  the  show  and  showed  the  showman  ? 


RELIGIOUS   PROGRESS.  63 


RELIGIOUS  PROGRESS. 

Every  religion  is  important.  When  men  rise  above  exist- 
ing conditions  a  new  religion  comes  in,  and  it  is  better 
than  the  old  one. — Professor  Howison. 

Professor  dear,  I  think  it  queer 

That  all  these  good  religions 
('Twixt  you  and  me,  some  two  or  three 

Are  schemes  for  plucking  pigeons) — 

I  mean  Jt  is  strange  that  every  change 

Our  poor  minds  to  unfetter 
Entails  a  new  religion — true 

As  t'  other  one,  and  better. 

From  each  in  turn  the  truth  we  learn, 

That  wood  or  flesh  or  spirit 
May  justly  boast  it  rules  the  roast 

Until  we  cease  to  fear  it. 

Nay,  once  upon  a  time  long  gone 
Man  worshipped  Cat  and  Lizard : 

His  God  he  'd  find  in  any  kind 
Of  beast,  from  a  to  izzard. 


64  RELIGIOUS   PROGRESS. 

When  risen  above  his  early  love 
Of  dirt  and  blood  and  slumber, 

He  pulled  down  these  vain  deities, 
And  made  one  out  of  lumber. 

"  Far  better  that  than  even  a  cat," 
The  Howisons  all  shouted; 

"  When  God  is  wood  religion  's  good !  " 
But  one  poor  cynic  doubted. 

"A  timber  God— that 's  very  odd !  " 
Said  Progress,  and  invented 

The  simple  plan  to  worship  Man, 
Who,  kindly  soul!  consented. 

But  soon  our  eye  we  lift  asky, 

Our  vows  all  unregarded, 
And  find  (at  least  so  says  the  priest) 

The  Truth — and  Man  's  discarded. 

Along  our  line  of  march  recline 
Dead  gods  devoid  of  feeling; 

And  thick  about  each  sun-cracked  lout 
Dried  Howisons  are  kneeling. 


MAGNANIMITY.  65 


MAGNANIMITY. 

"  To  the  will  of  the  people  we  loyally  bow !  " 
That 's  the  minority  shibboleth  now. 
O  noble  antagonists,  answer  me  flat — 
What  would  you  do  if  you  did  n't  do  that  ?  Jj 


66  TO   HER. 


TO    HER. 

O,  Sinner  A,  to  me  unknown 
Be  such  a  conscience  as  your  own ! 
To  ease  it  you  to  Sinner  B 
Confess  the  sins  of  Sinner  C. 


TO   A   SUMMER  POET.  67 


TO  A  SUMMER  POET. 

Yes,  the  Summer  girl  is  flirting  on  the  beach, 

With  a  him. 
And  the  damboy  is  a-climbing  for  the  peach, 

On  the  limb ; 

Yes,  the  bullfrog  is  a-croaking 
And  the  dudelet  is  a-smoking 

Cigarettes ; 

And  the  hackman  is  a-hacking 
And  the  showman  is  a-cracking 

Up  his  pets ; 

Yes,  the  Jersey  'skeeter  flits  along  the  shore 
And  the  snapdog — we  have  heard  it  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Yes,  my  poet, 

Well  we  know  it — 
Know  the  spooners  how  they  spoon 

In  the  bright 

Dollar  light 
Of  the  country  tavern  moon; 

Yes,  the  caterpillars  fall 

From  the  trees  (we  know  it  all), 
And  with  beetles  all  the  shelves 
Are  alive. 


68  TO   A   SUMMER   POET. 

Please  unbuttonhole  us — O, 
Have  the  grace  to  let  us  go, 

For  we  know 

How  you  Summer  poets  thrive, 
By  the  recapitulation 
And  insistent  iteration 
Of  the  wondrous  doings  incident  to  Life  Among 

Ourselves ! 

So,  I  pray  you  stop  the  fervor  and  the  fuss. 
For  you,  poor  human  linnet, 
There  's  a  half  a  living  in  it, 
But  there  's  not  a  copper  cent  in  it  for  us ! 


ARTHUR  MC.EWEN.  69 


ARTHUR  McEWEN. 

Posterity  with  all  its  eyes 

Will  come  and  view  him  where  he  lies. 

Then,  turning  from  the  scene  away 

With  a  concerted  shrug,  will  say: 

"  H'm,  Scarabseus  Sisyphus — 

What  interest  has  that  to  us? 

We  can't  admire  at  all,  at  all, 

A  tumble-bug  without  its  ball." 

And  then  a  sage  will  rise  and  say : 

"  Good  friends,  you  err — turn  back,  I  pray 

This  freak  that  you  unwisely  shun 

Is  bug  and  ball  rolled  into  one." 


70  CHARLES   AND   PETER. 


CHARLES    AND    PETER. 

Ere  Gabriel's  note  to  silence  died 
All  graves  of  men  were  gaping  wide. 

Then  Charles  A.  Dana,  of  "  The  Sun," 
Rose  slowly  from  the  deepest  one. 

"  The  dead  in  Christ  rise  first,  't  is  writ," 
Quoth  he—"  ick,  bick,  ban,  doe,— I  'm  It !  " 

(His  headstone,  footstone,  counted  slow, 
Were  "ick"  and  "bick,"  he  "ban"  and  "doe" : 

Of  beating  Nick  the  subtle  art 
Was  part  of  his  immortal  part.) 

Then  straight  to  Heaven  he  took  his  flight, 
Arriving  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 

There  Warden  Peter,  in  the  throes 
Of  sleep,  lay  roaring  in  the  nose. 

"  Get  up,  you  sluggard !  "    Dana  cried — 
"  I  've  an  engagement  there  inside." 

The  Saint  arose  and  scratched  his  head. 
"  I  recollect  your  face,"  he  said. 


CHARLES  AND   PETER.  71 

"(And,  pardon  me,  'tis  rather  hard), 
But "  Dana  handed  him  a  card. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  now  remember — bless 
My  soul,  how  dull  I  am ! — yes,  yes, 

"We  've  nothing  better  here  than  bliss. 
"  Walk  in.    But  I  must  tell  you  this : 

"  We  've  rest  and  comfort,  though,  and  peace." 
"  H'm— puddles,"  Dana  said,  "for  geese. 

"  Have  you  in  Heaven  no  Hell  ?  "    "  Why,  no," 
Said  Peter,  "nor,  in  truth,  below. 

"  'T  is  not  included  in  our  scheme — 
'T  is  but  a  preacher's  idle  dream." 

The  great  man  slowly  moved  away. 
"  I  '11  call,"  he  said,  "another  day. 

"  On  earth  I  played  it,  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  Heaven  without  it  were  a  bore." 

"  O,  stuff ! — come  in.    You  '11  make,"  said  Pete, 
"A  hell  where'er  you  set  your  feet." 
1885. 


72  CONTEMPLATION. 


CONTEMPLATION. 

I  muse  upon  the  distant  town 

In  many  a  dreamy  mood. 
Above  my  head  the  sunbeams  crown 

The  graveyard's  giant  rood. 
The  lupin  blooms  among  the  tombs. 

The  quail  recalls  her  brood. 

Ah,  good  it  is  to  sit  and  trace 

The  shadow  of  the  cross; 
It  moves  so  still  from  place  to  place 

O'er  marble,  bronze  and  moss; 
With  graves  to  mark  upon  its  arc 

Our  time's  eternal  loss. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  watch  the  bee 

That  revels  in  the  rose, 
And  sense  the  fragrance  floating  free 

On  every  breeze  that  blows 
O'er  many  a  mound,  where,  safe  and  sound, 

Mine  enemies  repose. 


CREATION.  73 


CREATION. 

God  dreamed — the  suns  sprang  flaming  into  place, 
And  sailing  worlds  with  many  a  venturous  race! 
He  woke — His  smile  alone  illumined  space. 


74  BUSINESS. 


BUSINESS. 

Two  villains  of  the  highest  rank 
Set  out  one  night  to  rob  a  bank. 
They  found  the  building,  looked  it  o'er, 
Each  window  noted,  tried  each  door, 
Scanned  carefully  the  lidded  hole 
For  minstrels  to  cascade  the  coal — 
In  short,  examined  five-and-twenty 
Good  paths  from  poverty  to  plenty. 
But  all  were  sealed,  they  saw  full  soon, 
Against  the  minions  of  the  moon. 
"Enough,"  said  one:    "I'm  satisfied." 
The  other,  smiling  fair  and  wide, 
Said :    "  I  'm  as  highly  pleased  as  you : 
No  burglar  ever  can  get  through. 
Fate  surely  prospers  our  design — 
The  booty  all  is  yours  and  mine." 
So,  full  of  hope,  the  following  day 
To  the  exchange  they  took  their  way 
And  bought,  with  manner  free  and  frank, 
Some  stock  of  that  devoted  bank; 
And  they  became,  inside  the  year, 
One  President  and  one  Cashier. 

Their  crime  I  can  no  further  trace — 
The  means  of  safety  to  embrace, 
I  overdrew  and  left  the  place. 


A   POSSIBILITY.  75 


A    POSSIBILITY. 

If  the  wicked  gods  were  willing 

(Pray  it  never  may  be  true!) 
That  a  universal  chilling 

Should  ensue 
Of  the  sentiment  of  loving, — 

If  they  made  a  great  undoing 
Of  the  plan  of  turtle-doving, 
Then  farewell  all  poet-lore, 

Evermore. 
If  there  were,  no  more  of  billing 

There  would  be  no  more  of  cooing 
And  we  all  should  be  but  owls — 

Lonely  fowls 
Blinking  wonderfully  wise, 

With  our  great  round  eyes — 
Sitting  singly  in  the  gloaming  and  no  longer 

two  and  two, 
As  unwilling  to  be  wedded  as  unpracticed  how 

to  woo; 

With  regard  to  being  mated, 
Asking  still  with  aggravated 
Ungrammatical    acerbity:       "  To    who?     To 
who?" 


76  TO   A    CENSOR. 


TO  A  CENSOR. 

"  The  delay  granted  by  the  weakness  and  good  nature  of 
our  judges  is  responsible  for  half  the  murders." — Daily 
Newspaper. 

Delay  responsible?     Why,  then,  my  friend, 

Impeach  Delay  and  you  will  make  an  end. 

Thrust  vile  Delay  in  jail  and  let  it  rot 

For  doing  all  the  things  that  it  should  not. 

Put  not  good-natured  judges  under  bond, 

But  make  Delay  in  damages  respond. 

Minos,  yEacus,  Rhadamanthus,  rolled 

Into  one  pitiless,  unsmiling  scold — 

Unsparing  censor,  be  your  thongs  uncurled 

To  "  lash  the  rascals  naked  through  the  world." 

The  rascals?    Nay,  Rascality's  the  thing 

Above  whose  back  your  knotted  scourges  sing. 

Your  satire,  truly,  like  a  razor  keen, 

"Wounds  with  a  touch  that's  neither  felt  nor  seen ;" 

For  naught  that  you  assail  with  falchion  free 

Has  either  nerves  to  feel  or  eyes  to  see. 

Against  abstractions  evermore  you  charge 

You  hack  no  helmet  and  you  need  no  targe. 

That  wickedness  is  wrong  and  sin  a  vice, 

That  wrong 's  not  right  and  foulness  never  nice, 


TO   A    CENSOR.  77 

Fearless  affirm.    All  consequences  dare : 

Smite  the  offense  and  the  offender  spare. 

When  Ananias  and  Sapphira  lied 

Falsehood,  had  you  been  there,  had  surely  died. 

When  money-changers  in  the  Temple  sat, 

At  money-changing  you  'd  have  whirled  the  "cat" 

(That  John-the-Baptist  of  the  modern  pen) 

And  all  the  brokers  would  have  cried  amen ! 

Good  friend,  if  any  judge  deserve  your  blame 
Have  you  no  courage,  or  has  he  no  name? 
Upon  his  method  will  you  wreak  your  wrath, 
Himself  all  unmolested  in  his  path? 
Fall  to !  fall  to !— your  club  no  longer  draw 
To  beat  the  air  or  flail  a  man  of  straw. 
Scorn  to  do  justice  like  the  Saxon  thrall 
Who  cuffed  the  offender's  shadow  on  a  wall. 
Let  rascals  in  the  flesh  attest  your  zeal — 
Knocked  on  the  mazzard  or  tripped  up  at  heel ! 

We  know  that  judges  are  corrupt.    We  know 
That  crimes  are  lively  and  that  laws  are  slow. 
We  know  that  lawyers  lie  and  doctors  slay ; 
That  priests  and  preachers  are  but  birds  of  pray; 
That  merchants  cheat  and  journalists  for  gold 
Flatter  the  vicious  while  at  vice  they  scold. 
JT  is  all  familiar  as  the  simple  lore 
That  two  policemen  and  two  thieves  make  four. 


78  TO   A   CENSOR. 

But  since,  while  some  are  wicked,  some  are  good, 

(As  trees  may  differ  though  they  all  are  wood) 

Names,  here  and  there,  to  show  whose  head  is  hit, 

The  bad  would  sentence  and  the  good  acquit. 

In  sparing  everybody  none  you  spare : 

Rebukes  most  personal  are  least  unfair. 

To  fire  at  random  if  you  still  prefer, 

And  swear  at  Dog  but  never  kick  a  cur, 

Permit  me  yet  one  ultimate  appeal 

To  something  that  you  understand  and  feel : 

Let  thrift  and  vanity  your  heart  persuade — 

You  might  be  read  if  you  would  learn  your  trade. 

Good  brother  cynics  (you  have  doubtless  guessed 
Not  one  of  you  but  all  are  here  addressed) 
Remember  this :  the  shaft  that  seeks  a  heart 
Draws  all  eyes  after  it ;  an  idle  dart 
Shot  at  some  shadow  flutters  o'er  the  green, 
Its  flight  unheeded  and  its  fall  unseen. 


THE  HESITATING  VETERAN.  79 


THE  HESITATING  VETERAN. 

When  I  was  young  and  full  of  faith 

And  other  fads  that  youngsters  cherish 
A  cry  rose  as  of  one  that  saith 

With  unction :    "  Help  me  or  I  perish !  " 
'T  was  heard  in  all  the  land,  and  men 

The  sound  were  each  to  each  repeating. 
It  made  my  heart  beat  faster  then 

Than  any  heart  can  now  be  beating. 

For  the  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  gray — 

Grown  prudent  and,  I  guess,  more  witty. 
She  's  cut  her  wisdom  teeth,  they  say, 

And  does  n't  now  go  in  for  Pity. 
Besides,  the  melancholy  cry 

Was  that  of  one,  't  is  now  conceded, 
Whose  plight  no  one  beneath  the  sky 

Felt  half  so  poignantly  as  he  did. 

Moreover,  he  was  black.    And  yet 

That  sentimental  generation 
With  an  austere  compassion  set 

Its  face  and  faith  to  the  occasion. 


8o  THE  HESITATING  VETERAN. 

Then  there  were  hate  and  strife  to  spare, 
And  various  hard  knocks  a-plenty; 

And  I  ('twas  more  than  my  true  share, 
I  must  confess)  took  five-and-twenty. 

That  all  is  over  now — the  reign 

Of  love  and  trade  stills  all  dissensions, 
And  the  clear  heavens  arch  again 

Above  a  land  of  peace  and  pensions. 
The  black  chap — at  the  last  we  gave 

Him  everything  that  he  had  cried  for, 
Though  many  white  chaps  in  the  grave 

'T  would  puzzle  to  say  what  they  died  for. 

I  hope  he's  better  off — I  trust 

That  his  society  and  his  master's 
Are  worth  the  price  we  paid,  and  must 

Continue  paying,  in  disasters ; 
But  sometimes  doubts  press  thronging  round 

('T  is  mostly  when  my  hurts  are  aching) 
If  war  for  union  was  a  sound 

And  profitable  undertaking. 

'T  is  said  they  mean  to  take  away 
The  Negro's  vote  for  he  's  unlettered. 

'T  is  true  he  sits  in  darkness  day 

And  night,  as  formerly,  when  fettered ; 


THE  HESITATING  VETERAN.  81 

But  pray  observe — howe'er  he  vote 

To  whatsoever  party  turning, 
He  '11  be  with  gentlemen  of  note 

And  wealth  and  consequence  and  learning. 
With  Hales  and  Morgans  on  each  side, 

How  could  a  fool  through  lack  of  knowledge, 
Vote  wrong?    If  learning  is  no  guide 

Why  ought  one  to  have  been  in  college? 

0  Son  of  Day,  O  Son  of  Night ! 
What  are  your  preferences  made  of? 

1  know  not  which  of  you  is  right, 

Nor  which  to  be  the  more  afraid  of. 

The  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  bad, 

And  creaks  and  grinds  upon  its  axis ; 
And  man 's  an  ape  and  the  gods  are  mad ! — 

There  's  nothing  sure,  not  even  our  taxes. 
No  mortal  man  can  Truth  restore, 

Or  say  where  she  is  to  be  sought  for. 
I  know  what  uniform  I  wore — 

O,  that  I  knew  which  side  I  fought  for! 


82  A    YEAR'S   CASUALTIES. 


A  YEAR'S  CASUALTIES. 

Slain  as  they  lay  by  the  secret,  slow, 

Pitiless  hand  of  an  unseen  foe, 

Two  score  thousand  old  soldiers  have  crossed 

The  river  to  join  the  loved  and  lost. 

In  the  space  of  a  year  their  spirits  fled, 

Silent  and  white,  to  the  camp  of  the  dead. 

One  after  one,  they  fall  asleep 

And  the  pension  agents  awake  to  weep, 

And  orphaned  statesmen  are  loud  in  their  wail 

As  the  souls  flit  by  on  the  evening  gale. 

O  Father  of  Battles,  pray  give  us  release 

From  the  horrors  of  peace,  the  horrors  of  peace ! 


INSPIRATION.  83 


INSPIRATION. 

O  hoary  sculptor,  stay  thy  hand : 

I  fain  would  view  the  lettered  stone. 
What  carvest  thou? — perchance  some  grand 

And  solemn  fancy  all  thine  own. 
For  oft  to  know  the  fitting  word 
Some  humble  worker  God  permits. 
"Jain  Ann  Meginnis, 

Agid  3rd. 
He  givith  His  beluved  fits." 


84  TO-DAY. 


TO-DAY. 

I  saw  a  man  who  knelt  in  prayer, 

And  heard  him  say : 
"  I  '11  lay  my  inmost  spirit  bare 
To-day. 

"  Lord,  for  to-morrow  and  its  need 

I  do  not  pray; 

Let  me  upon  my  neighbor  feed 
To-day. 

"  Let  me  my  duty  duly  shirk 

And  run  away 

From  any  form  or  phase  of  work 
To-day. 

"  From  Thy  commands  exempted  still 

Let  me  obey 

The  promptings  of  my  private  will 
To-day. 

"  Let  me  no  word  profane,  no  lie 

Unthinking  say 
If  anyone  is  standing  by 
To-day. 


TO-DAY.  85 

"  My  secret  sins  and  vices  grave 

Let  none  betray; 
The  scoffer's  jeers  I  do  not  crave 
To-day. 

"And  if  to-day  my  fortune  all 

Should  ebb  away, 
Help  me  on  other  men's  to  fall 
To-day. 

"  So,  for  to-morrow  and  its  mite 

I  do  not  pray; 

Just  give  me  everything  in  sight 
To-day." 

I  cried :  "  Amen !  "    He  rose  and  ran 

Like  oil  away. 

I  said :    "  I  've  seen  an  honest  man 
To-day." 


86  AN  ALIBI. 


AN   ALIBI. 

A  famous  journalist,  who  long 

Had  told  the  great  unheaded  throng 

Whatever  they  thought,  by  day  or  night, 

Was  true  as  Holy  Writ,  and  right, 

Was  caught  in — well,  on  second  thought, 

It  is  enough  that  he  was  caught, 

And  being  thrown  in  jail  became 

The  fuel  of  a  public  flame. 

"Vox  populi  vox  Dei,"  said 

The  jailer.     Inxling  bent  his  head 

Without  remark :  that  motto  good 

In  bold-faced  type  had  always  stood 

Above  the  columns  where  his  pen 

Had  rioted  in  praise  of  men 

And  all  they  said — provided  he 

Was  sure  they  mostly  did  agree. 

Meanwhile  a  sharp  and  bitter  strife 

To  take,  or  save,  the  culprit's  life 

Or  liberty  (which,  I  suppose, 

Was  much  the  same  to  him)   arose 

Outside.    The  journal  that  his  pen 

Adorned  denounced  his  crime — but  then 


AN   ALIBI.  87 

Its  editor  in  secret  tried 

To  have  the  indictment  set  aside. 

The  opposition  papers  swore 

His  father  was  a  rogue  before, 

And  all  his  wife's  relations  were 

Like  him  and  similar  to  her. 

They  begged  their  readers  to  subscribe 

A  dollar  each  to  make  a  bribe 

That  any  Judge  would  feel  was  large 

Enough  to  prove  the  gravest  charge — 

Unless,  it  might  be,  the  defense 

Put  up  superior  evidence. 

The  law's  traditional  delay 

Was  all  too  short:  the  trial  day 

Dawned  red  and  menacing.    The  Judge 

Sat  on  the  Bench  and  would  n't  budge, 

And  all  the  motions  counsel  made 

Could  not  move  him — and  there  he  stayed. 
"  The  case  must  now  proceed,"  he  said, 
"  While  I  am  just  in  heart  and  head, 

It  happens — as,  indeed,  it  ought — 

Both  sides  with  equal  sums  have  bought 

My  favor:    I  can  try  the  cause 

Impartially."     (Prolonged  applause.) 

The  prisoner  was  now  arraigned 
And  said  that  he  was  greatly  pained 
To  be  suspected — he,  whose  pen 
Had  charged  so  many  other  men 


AN  ALIBI. 

With  crimes  and  misdemeanors !    "  Why," 

He  said,  a  tear  in  either  eye, 

"If  men  who  live  by  crying  out 

'  Stop  thief ! '  are  not  themselves  from  doubt 

Of  their  integrity  exempt, 

Let  all  forego  the  vain  attempt 

To  make  a  reputation!     Sir, 

I  'm  innocent,  and  I  demur." 

Whereat  a  thousand  voices  cried 

Amain  he  manifestly  lied — 

Vox  populi  as  loudly  roared 

As  bull  by  picadores  gored, 

In  his  own  coin  receiving  pay 

To  make  a  Spanish  holiday. 

The  jury — twelve  good  men  and  true — 
Were  then  sworn  in  to  see  it  through, 
And  each  made  solemn  oath  that  he 
As  any  babe  unborn  was  free 
From  prejudice,  opinion,  thought, 
Respectability,  brains — aught 
That  could  disqualify;  and  some 
Explained  that  they  were  deaf  and  dumb. 
A  better  twelve,  his  Honor  said, 
Was  rare,  except  among  the  dead. 
The  witnesses  were  called  and  sworn. 
The  tales  they  told  made  angels  mourn, 
And  the  Good  Book  they  'd  kissed  became 
Red  with  the  consciousness  of  shame. 


AN   ALIBI.  89 

Whenever  one  of  them  approached 

The  truth,  "  That  witness  was  n't  coached, 

Your  Honor !  "  cried  the  lawyers  both. 

"  Strike  out  his  testimony,"  quoth 

The  learned  judge :    "  This  Court  denies 

Its  ear  to  stories  which  surprise. 

I  hold  that  witnesses  exempt 

From  coaching  all  are  in  contempt." 

Both  Prosecution  and  Defense 

Applauded  the  judicial  sense, 

And  the  spectators  all  averred 

Such  wisdom  they  had  never  heard: 

'T  was  plain  the  prisoner  would  be 

Found  guilty  in  the  first  degree. 

Meanwhile  that  wight's  pale  cheek  confessed 

The  nameless  terrors  in  his  breast. 

He  felt  remorseful,  too,  because 

He  was  n't  half  they  said  he  was. 

"  If  I  'd  been  such  a  rogue,"  he  mused 

On  opportunities  unused, 

"  I  might  have  easily  become 

As  wealthy  as  Methusalum." 

This  journalist  adorned,  alas, 

The  middle,  not  the  Bible,  class. 

With  equal  skill  the  lawyers'  pleas 
Attested  their  divided  fees. 
Each  gave  the  other  one  the  lie, 
Then  helped  him  frame  a  sharp  reply. 


90  AN   ALIBI. 

Good  Lord!  it  was  a  bitter  fight, 
And  lasted  all  the  day  and  night. 
When  once  or  oftener  the  roar 
Had  silenced  the  judicial  snore 
The  speaker  suffered  for  the  sport 
By  fining  for  contempt  of  court. 
Twelve  jurors'  noses  good  and  true 
Unceasing  sang  the  trial  through, 
And  even  vox  populi  was  spent 
In  rattles  through  a  nasal  vent. 
Clerk,  bailiff,  constables  and  all 
Heard  Morpheus  sound  the  trumpet  call 
To  arms — his  arms — and  all  fell  in 
Save  counsel  for  the  Man  of  Sin. 
That  thaumaturgist  stood  and  swayed 
The  wand  their  faculties  obeyed — 
That  magic  wand  which,  like  a  flame, 
Leapt,  wavered,  quivered  and  became 
A  wonder-worker — known  among 
The  ignoble  vulgar  as  a  Tongue. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  my  verse 
Runs  on  for  better  or  for  worse 
In  meter  which  overmasters  me, 
Octosyllabically  free ! — 
A  meter  which,  the  poets  say, 
No  power  of  restraint  can  stay; — 
A  hard-mouthed  meter,  suited  well 
To  him  who,  having  naught  to  tell, 


AN  ALIBI.  gi 

Must  hold  attention  as  a  trout 

Is  held,  by  paying  out  and  out 

The  slender  line  which  else  would  break 

Should  one  attempt  the  fish  to  take. 

Thus  tavern  guides  who  've  naught  to  show 

But  some  adjacent  curio 

By  devious  trails  their  patrons  lead 

And  make  them  think  't  is  far  indeed. 

Where  was  I? 

While  the  lawyer  talked 
The  rogue  took  up  his  feet  and  walked: 
While  all  about  him,  roaring,  slept, 
Into  the  street  he  calmly  stepped. 
In  very  truth,  the  man  who  thought 
The  people's  voice  from  heaven  had  caught 
God's  inspiration  took  a  change 
Of  venue — it  was  passing  strange! 
Straight  to  his  editor  he  went 
And  that  ingenious  person  sent 
A  Negro  to  impersonate 
The  fugitive.    In  adequate 
Disguise  he  took  his  vacant  place 
And  buried  in  his  arms  his  face. 
When  all  was  done  the  lawyer  stopped 
And  silence  like  a  bombshell  dropped 
Upon  the  Court:    judge,  jury,  all 
Within  that  venerable  hall 
(Except  the  deaf  and  dumb,  indeed, 


92  AN  ALIBL 

And  one  or  two  whom  death  had  freed) 
Awoke  and  tried  to  look  as  though 
Slumber  was  all  they  did  not  know. 

And  now  that  tireless  lawyer-man 

Took  breath,  and  then  again  began : 

"  Your  Honor,  if  you  did  attend 

To  what  I've  urged  (my  learned  friend 

Nodded  concurrence)  to  support 

The  motion  I  have  made,  this  court 

May  soon  adjourn.    With  your  assent 

I  've  shown  abundant  precedent 

For  introducing  now,  though  late, 

New  evidence  to  exculpate 

My  client.     So,  if  you  '11  allow, 

I  '11  prove  an  alibi!  "    "  What  ?— how  ?  " 

Stammered  the  judge.    "  Well,  yes,  I  can't 

Deny  your  showing,  and  I  grant 

The  motion.     Do  I  understand 

You  undertake  to  prove — good  land! — 

That  when  the  crime — you  mean  to  show 

Your  client  was  n't  there?  "    "  O,  no, 

I  cannot  quite  do  that,  I  find: 

My  alibi 's  another  kind 

Of  alibi— I  '11  make  it  clear, 

Your  Honor,  that  he  is  n't  here" 

The  Darky  here  upreared  his  head, 

Tranquillity  affrighted  fled 

And  consternation  reigned  instead! 


REBUKE.  93 


REBUKE. 

When  Admonition's  hand  essays 

Our  greed  to  curse, 
Its  lifted  finger  oft  displays 

Our  missing  purse. 


94  /.  F.  B. 


J.  F.  B. 

How  well  this  man  unfolded  to  our  view 

The  world's  beliefs  of  Death  and  Heaven  and 

Hell— 
This  man  whose  own  convictions  none  could  tell, 

Nor  if  his  maze  of  reason  had  a  clew. 

Dogmas  he  wrote  for  daily  bread,  but  knew 
The  fair  philosophies  of  doubt  so  well 
That  while  we  listened  to  his  words  there  fell 

Some  that  were  strangely  comforting,  though  true. 

Marking  how  wise  we  grew  upon  his  doubt, 
We  said :  "  If  so,  by  groping  in  the  night, 
He  can  proclaim  some  certain  paths  of  trust, 

How  great  our  profit  if  he  saw  about 

His  feet  the  highways  leading  to  the  light." 

Now  he  sees  all.    Ah,  Christ!  his  mouth  is  dust! 


THE   DYING   STATESMAN.  95 


THE   DYING   STATESMAN. 

It  is  a  politician  man — 

He  draweth  near  his  end, 
And  friends  weep  round  that  partisan, 

Of  every  man  the  friend. 

Between  the  Known  and  the  Unknown 

He  lieth  on  the  strand ; 
The  light  upon  the  sea  is  thrown 

That  lay  upon  the  land. 

It  shineth  in  his  glazing  eye, 

It  burneth  on  his  face; 
God  send  that  when  we  come  to  die 

We  know  that  sign  of  grace! 

Upon  his  lips  his  blessed  sprite 

Poiseth  her  joyous  wing. 
"  How  is  it  with  thee,  child  of  light? 

Dost  hear  the  angels  sing  ?  " 

"  The  song  I  hear,  the  crown  I  see, 
And  know  that  God  is  love. 

Farewell,  dark  world — I  go  to  be 
A  postmaster  above !  " 

For  him  no  monumental  arch, 
But,  O,  Jt  is  good  and  brave 

To  see  the  Grand  Old  Party  march 
To  office  o'er  his  grave! 


96  THE  DEATH   OF   GRANT. 


THE  DEATH  OF  GRANT. 

Father!  whose  hard  and  cruel  law 
Is  part  of  thy  compassion's  plan, 
Thy  works  presumptuously  we  scan 

For  what  the  prophets  say  they  saw. 

Unbidden  still  the  awful  slope 
Walling  us  in  we  climb  to  gain 
Assurance  of  the  shining  plain 

That  faith  has  certified  to  hope. 

In  vain! — beyond  the  circling  hill 
The  shadow  and  the  cloud  abide. 
Subdue  the  doubt,  our  spirits  guide 

To  trust  the  Record  and  be  still. 

To  trust  it  loyally  as  he 

Who,  heedful  of  his  high  design, 
Ne'er  raised  a  seeking  eye  to  thine, 

But  wrought  thy  will  unconsciously, 

Disputing  not  of  chance  or  fate, 
Nor  questioning  of  cause  or  creed; 
For  anything  but  duty's  deed 

Too  simply  wise,  too  humbly  great. 


THE   DEATH   OF   GRANT.  97 

The  cannon  syllabled  his  name ; 

His  shadow  shifted  o'er  the  land, 

Portentous,  as  at  his  command 
Successive  cities  sprang  to  flame! 

He  fringed  the  continent  with  fire, 

The  rivers  ran  in  lines  of  light! 

Thy  will  be  done  on  earth — if  right 
Or  wrong  he  cared  not  to  inquire. 

His  was  the  heavy  hand,  and  his 

The  service  of  the  despot  blade; 

His  the  soft  answer  that  allayed 
War's  giant  animosities. 

Let  us  have  peace:  our  clouded  eyes, 
Fill,  Father,  with  another  light, 
That  we  may  see  with  clearer  sight 

Thy  servant's  soul  in  Paradise. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   REFILLED. 


THE    FOUNTAIN    REFILLED. 

Of  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 

(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 

The  Muse  of  History  records 

That  he  'd  get  drunk  as  twenty  lords. 

He  'd  get  so  truly  drunk  that  men 
Stood  by  to  marvel  at  him  when 
His  slow  advance  along  the  street 
Was  but  a  vain  cycloidal  feat. 

And  when  't  was  fated  that  he  fall 
With  a  wide  geographical  sprawl, 
They  signified  assent  by  sounds 
Heard  (faintly)  at  its  utmost  bounds. 

And  yet  this  Mr.  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Cast  not  on  wine  his  thirsty  eyes 
When  it  was  red  or  otherwise. 

All  malt,  or  spirituous,  tope 
He  loathed  as  cats  dissent  from  soap ; 
And  cider,  if  it  touched  his  lip, 
Evoked  a  groan  at  every  sip. 


THE   FOUNTAIN  REFILLED.  99 

But  still,  as  heretofore  explained, 
He  not  infrequently  was  grained. 
(I  'm  not  of  those  who  call  it  "corned." 
Coarse  speech  I  've  always  duly  scorned. ) 

Though  truth  to  say,  and  that 's  but  right, 
Strong  drink  (it  hath  an  adder's  bite!) 
Was  what  had  put  him  in  the  mud, 
The  only  kind  he  used  was  blood ! 

Alas,  that  an  immortal  soul 
Addicted  to  the  flowing  bowl, 
The  emptied  flagon  should  again 
Replenish  from  a  neighbor's  vein. 

But,  Mr.  Shanahan  was  so 
Constructed,  and  his  taste  that  low. 
Nor  more  deplorable  was  he 
In  kind  of  thirst  than  in  degree; 

For  sometimes  fifty  souls  would  pay 
The  debt  of  nature  in  a  day 
To  free  him  from  the  shame  and  pain 
Of  dread  Sobriety's  misreign. 

His  native  land,  proud  of  its  sense 
Of  his  unique  inabstinence, 
Abated  something  of  its  pride 
At  thought  of  his  unfilled  inside. 


ioo  THE   FOUNTAIN   REFILLED. 

And  some  the  boldness  had  to  say 
'T  were  well  if  he  were  called  away 
To  slake  his  thirst  forevermore 
In  oceans  of  celestial  gore. 

But  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Knew  that  his  thirst  was  mortal ;  so 
Remained  unsainted  here  below — 

Unsainted  and  unsaintly,  for 
He  neither  went  to  glory  nor 
To  abdicate  his  power  deigned 
Where,  under  Providence,  he  reigned, 

But  kept  his  Boss's  power  accurst 
To  serve  his  wild  uncommon  thirst, 
Which  now  had  grown  so  truly  great 
It  was  a  drain  upon  the  State. 

Soon,  soon  there  came  a  time,  alas! 
When  he  turned  down  an  empty  glass — 
All-  practicable  means  were  vain 
His  special  wassail  to  obtain. 

In  vain  poor  Decimation  tried 
To  furnish  forth  the  needful  tide; 
And  Civil  War  as  vainly  shed 
Her  niggard  offering  of  red. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   REFILLED.  in 

Poor  Shanahari!  his  thirst  increased 
Until  he  wished  himself  deceased, 
Invoked  the  firearm  and  the  knife, 
But  could  not  die  to  save  his  life ! 

He  was  so  dry  his  own  veins  made 

No  answer  to  the  seeking  blade ; 

So  parched  that  when  he  would  have  passed 

Away  he  could  not  breathe  his  last. 

'T  was  then,  when  almost  in  despair, 
(Unlaced  his  shoon,  unkempt  his  hair) 
He  saw  as  in  a  dream  a  way 
To  wet  afresh  his  mortal  clay. 

Yes,  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Saw  freedom,  and  with  joy  and  pride 
"Thalassa!  (or  Thalatta!)"  cried. 

Straight  to  the  Aldermen  went  he,, 
With  many  a  "pull"  and  many  a  fee, 
And  many  a  most  corrupt  "combine"        * 
(The  Press  for  twenty  cents  a  line 

Held  out  and  fought  him — O,  God,  bless 
Forevermore  the  holy  Press ! ) 
Till  he  had  franchises  complete 
For  trolley  lines  on  every  street! 


102  THE   FOUNTAIN   REFILLED. 

The  cars  were  builded  and,  they  say, 
Were  run  on  rails  laid  every  way — 
Rhomboidal  roads,  and  circular, 
And  oval — everywhere  a  car — 

Square,  dodecagonal  (in  great 
Esteem  the  shape  called  Figure  8) 
And  many  other  kinds  of  shapes 
As  various  as  tails  of  apes. 

No  other  group  of  men's  abodes 
E'er  had  such  odd  electric  roads, 
That  winding  in  and  winding  out, 
Began  and  ended  all  about. 

No  city  had,  unless  in  Mars, 
That  city's  wealth  of  trolley  cars. 
They  ran  by  day,  they  flew  by  night, 
And  O,  the  sorry,  sorry  sight! 

And  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Incessantly,  the  Muse  records, 
Lay  drunk  as  twenty  thousand  lords! 


LAUS   LUCIS.  103 

LAUS    LUCIS. 

Theosophists  are  about  to  build  a  "  Temple  for  the 
Revival  of  the  Mysteries  of  Antiquity." — Vide  the  News- 
papers, passim. 

Each  to  his  taste:  some  men  prefer  to  play 
At  mystery,  as  others  at  piquet. 
Some  sit  in  mystic  meditation;  some 
Parade  the  street  with  tambourine  and  drum. 
One  studies  to  decipher  ancient  lore 
Which,  proving  stuff,  he  studies  all  the  more ; 
Another  swears  that  learning  is  but  good 
To  darken  things  already  understood, 
Then  writes  upon  Simplicity  so  well 
That  none  agree  on  what  he  wants  to  tell, 
And  future  ages  will  declare  his  pen 
Inspired  by  gods  with  messages  to  men. 
To  found  an  ancient  order  those  devote 
Their  time — with  ritual,  regalia,  goat, 
Blankets  for  tossing,  chairs  of  little  ease 
And  all  the  modern  inconveniences; 
These,  saner,  frown  upon  unmeaning  rites 
And  go  to  church  for  rational  delights. 
So  all  are  suited,  shallow  and  profound, 
The  prophets  prosper  and  the  world  goes  round. 
For  me — unread  in  the  occult,  I'm  fain 
To  damn  all  mysteries  alike  as  vain, 
Spurn  the  obscure  and  base  my  faith  upon 
The  Revelations  of  the  good  St.  John. 
1897- 


104  NANINE. 


NANINE. 

We  heard  a  song-bird  trilling— 
'T  was  but  a  night  ago. 

Such  rapture  he  was  rilling 
As  only  we  could  know. 

This  morning  he  is  flinging 
His  music  from  the  tree, 

But  something  in  the  singing 
Is  not  the  same  to  me. 

His  inspiration  fails  him, 
Or  he  has  lost  his  skill. 

Nanine,  Nanine,  what  ails  him 
That  he  should  sing  so  ill? 

Nanine  is  not  replying — 
She  hears  no  earthly  song. 

The  sun  and  bird  are  lying 
And  the  night  is,  O,  so  long! 


TECHNOLOGY.  105 


TECHNOLOGY. 

'T  was  a  serious  person  with  locks  of  gray 

And  a  figure  like  a  crescent; 
His  gravity,  clearly,  had  come  to  stay, 

But  his  smile  was  evanescent. 

He  stood  and  conversed  with  a  neighbor,  and 
With  (likewise)  a  high  falsetto; 

And  he  stabbed  his  forefinger  into  his  hand 
As  if  it  had  been  a  stiletto. 

His  words,  like  the  notes  of  a  tenor  drum, 
Came  out  of  his  head  unblended, 

And  the  wonderful  altitude  of  some 
Was  exceptionally  splendid. 

While  executing  a  shake  of  the  head, 
With  the  hand,  as  it  were,  of  a  master, 

This  agonizing  old  gentleman  said: 
"  'T  was  a  truly  sad  disaster ! 

"  Four  hundred  and  ten  longs  and  shorts  in  all, 
Went  down" — he  paused  and  snuffled. 

A  single  tear  was  observed  to  fall, 
And  the  old  man's  drum  was  muffled. 


io6  TECHNOLOGY. 

"A  very  calamitous  year,"  he  said, 
And  again  his  head-piece  hoary 

He  shook,  and  another  pearl  he  shed, 
As  if  he  wept  con  amore. 

"  O  lacrymose  person,"  I  cried,  "pray  why 
Should  these  failures  so  affect  you? 

With  speculators  in  stocks  no  eye 

That 's  normal  would  ever  connect  you." 

He  focused  his  orbs  upon  mine  and  smiled 

In  a  sinister  sort  of  manner. 
"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  your  words  are  wild : 

"  I  spoke  of  the  steamship  '  Hanner.' 

"  For  she  has  went  down  in  a  howlin'  squall, 
And  my  heart  is  nigh  to  breakin' — 

Four  hundred  and  ten  longs  and  shorts  in  all 
Will  never  need  undertakin' ! 

"  I  'm  in  the  business  myself,"  said  he, 
"And  you  've  mistook  my  expression ; 

For  I  uses  the  technical  terms,  you  see, 
Employed  in  my  perfession." 

That  old  undertaker  has  joined  the  throng 
On  the  other  side  of  the  River, 

But  I  'm  still  unhappy  to  think  I  'm  a  "  long," 
And  a  tape-line  makes  me  shiver. 


A    REPLY    TO   A   LETTER.  107 


A   REPLY    TO    A    LETTER. 

O  nonsense,  parson — tell  me  not  they  thrive 

And  jubilate  who  follow  your  dictation. 
The  good  are  the  unhappiest  lot  alive — 

I  know  they  are  from  careful  observation. 

If  freedom  from  the  terrors  of  damnation 
Lengthens  the  visage  like  a  telescope, 
And  lacrymation  is  a  sign  of  hope, 

Then  I'll  continue,  in  my  dreadful  plight, 
To  tread  the  dusky  paths  of  sin,  and  grope 

Contentedly  without  your  lantern's  light; 

And  though  in  many  a  bog  beslubbered  quite, 
Refuse  to  flay  me  with  ecclesiastic  soap. 

You  say  't  is  a  sad  world,  seeing  I  'm  condemned, 
With  many  a  million  others  of  my  kidney. 

Each  continent 's  Hammed,  Japheted  and  Shemmed 
With  sinners — worldlings  like  Sir  Philip  Sidney 

And  scoffers  like  Voltaire,  who  thought  it  bliss 

To  simulate  respect  for  Genesis — 

Who  bent  the  mental  knee  as  if  in  prayer, 
But  mocked  at  Moses  underneath  his  hair, 

And  like  an  angry  gander  bowed  his  head  to  hiss. 


io8  A   REPLY   TO   A   LETTER. 

Seeing  such  as  these,  who  die  without  contrition, 
Must  go  to — beg  your  pardon,  sir — perdition, 
The  sons  of  light,  you  tell  me,  can't  be  gay, 
But  count  it  sin  of  the  sort  called  omission 
The  groan  to  smother  or  the  tear  to  stay 
Or  fail  to — what  is  that  they  live  by? — pray. 
So  down  they  flop,  and  the  whole  serious  race  is 
Put  by  divine  compassion  on  a  praying  basis. 

Well,  if  you  take  it  so  to  heart,  while  yet 

Our  own  hearts  are  so  light  with  nature's  leaven, 
You  '11  weep  indeed  when  we  in  Hades  sweat, 
And  you  look  down  upon  us  out  of  Heaven. 
In  fancy,  lo !    I  see  your  wailing  shades 
Thronging  the  crystal  battlements.    Cascades 
Of  tears  spring  singing  from  each  golden  spout, 
Run  roaring  from  the  verge  with  hoarser  sound, 
Dash    downward   through   the   glimmering   pro- 
found, 
Quench  the  tormenting  flame  and  put  the  Devil  out ! 

Presumptuous  ass!  to  you  no  power  belongs 
To  pitchfork  me  to  Heaven  upon  the  prongs 

Of  a  bad  pen,  whose  disobedient  sputter, 
With  less  of  ink  than  incoherence  fraught 

Befits  the  folly  that  it  tries  to  utter. 

Brains,  I  observe,  as  well  as  tongues,  can  stutter : 
You  suffer  from  impediment  of  thought. 


A  REPLY  TO  A  LETTER.  109 

When  next  you  "point  the  way  to  Heaven/'  take  care : 
Your  ringers  all  being  thumbs,  point,  Heaven  knows 

where ! 

Farewell,  poor  dunce !  your  letter  though  I  blame, 
Bears  witness  how  my  anger  I  can  tame : 
I  've  called  you  everything  except  your  hateful  name ! 


no  TO   OSCAR   WILDE. 


TO  OSCAR  WILDE. 

Because  from  Folly's  lips  you  got 
Some  babbled  mandate  to  subdue 
The  realm  of  Common  Sense,  and  you 

Made  promise  and  considered  not — 

Because  you  strike  a  random  blow 
At  what  you  do  not  understand, 
And  beckon  with  a  friendly  hand 

To  something  that  you  do  not  know, 

I  hold  no  speech  of  your  desert, 
Nor  answer  with  porrected  shield 
The  wooden  weapon  that  you  wield, 

But  meet  you  with  a  cast  of  dirt. 

Dispute  with  such  a  thing  as  you — 
Twin  show  to  the  two-headed  calf? 
Why,  sir,  if  I  repress  my  laugh, 

JT  is  more  than  half  the  world  can  do. 
1882. 


PRAYER.  HI 


PRAYER. 

Fear  not  in  any  tongue  to  call 
Upon  the  Lord — He's  skilled  in  all. 
But  if  He  answereth  my  plea 
He  speaketh  one  unknown  to  me. 


H2  A    "BORN   LEADER    OF   MEN.' 


A   "BORN   LEADER   OF   MEN." 

Tuckerton  Tamerlane  Morey  Mahosh 
Is  a  statesman  of  world-wide  fame, 
With  a  notable  knack  at  rhetorical  bosh 

To  glorify  somebody's  name — 
Somebody  chosen  by  Tuckerton's  masters 
To  succor  the  country  from  divers  disasters 
'^Portentous  to  Mr.   Mahosh. 

Percy  O'Halloran  Tarpy  Cabee 

Is  in  the  political  swim. 
He  cares  not  a  button  for  men,  not  he : 

Great  principles  captivate  him — 
Principles  cleverly  cut  out  and  fitted 
To  Percy's  capacity,  duly  submitted, 
And  fought  for  by  Mr.  Cabee. 

Drusus  Turn  Swinnerton  Porfer  Fitzurse 

Holds  office  the  most  of  his  life. 
For  men  nor  for  principles  cares  he  a  curse, 

But  much  for  his  neighbor's  wife. 
The  Ship  of  State  leaks,  but  he  does  n't  pump  any, 
Messrs.  Mahosh,  Cabee  &  Company 
Pump  for  good  Mr.  Fitzurse. 


TO    THE   BARTHOLDI  STATUE.  113 


TO    THE    BARTHOLDI    STATUE. 

O  Liberty,  God-gifted— 

Young  and  immortal  maid — 

In  your  high  hand  uplifted, 
The  torch  declares  your  trade. 

Its  crimson  menace,  flaming 

Upon  the  sea  and  shore, 
Is,  trumpet-like.,  proclaiming 

That  Law  shall  be  no  more. 

Austere  incendiary, 

We  're  blinking  in  the  light ; 
Where  is  your  customary 

Grenade  of  dynamite? 

Where  are  your  staves  and  switches 

For  men  of  gentle  birth? 
Your  mask  and  dirk  for  riches  ? 

Your  chains  for  wit  and  worth? 

Perhaps,  you  Ve  brought  the  halters 

You  used  in  the  old  days, 
When  round  religion's  altars 

You  stabled  Cromwell's  bays? 


H4      TO  THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE. 

Behind  you,  unsuspected, 

Have  you  the  axe,  fair  wench, 

Wherewith  you  once  collected 
A  poll-tax  from  the  French? 

America  salutes  you — 
Preparing  to  disgorge. 

Take  everything  that  suits  you, 
And  marry  Henry  George. 

1894 


AN  UN  MERRY  CHRISTMAS.  115 


AN  UNMERRY  CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas,  you  tell  me,  comes  but  once  a  year. 
One  place  it  never  comes,  and  that  is  here. 
Here,  in  these  pages  no  good  wishes  spring, 
No  well-worn  greetings  tediously  ring — 
For  Christmas  greetings  are  like  pots  of  ore : 
The  hollower  they  are  they  ring  the  more. 
Here  shall  no  holly  cast  a  spiny  shade, 
Nor  mistletoe  my  solitude  invade, 
No  trinket-laden  vegetable  come, 
No  jorum  steam  with  Sheolate  of  rum. 
No  shrilling  children  shall  their  voices  rear. 
Hurrah  for  Christmas  without  Christmas  cheer! 

No  presents,  if  you  please — I  know  too  well 

What  Herbert  Spencer,  if  he  did  n't  tell 

(I  know  not  if  he  did)  yet  might  have  told 

Of  present-giving  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  Early  Man  with  gifts  propitiated 

The  chiefs  whom  most  he  doubted,  feared  and  hated, 

Or  tendered  them  in  hope  to  reap  some  rude 

Advantage  from  the  taker's  gratitude. 

Since  thus  the  Gift  its  origin  derives 

(How  much  of  its  first  character  survives 

You  know  as  well  as  I)  my  stocking's  tied, 

My  pocket  buttoned — with  my  soul  inside. 

I  save  my  money  and  I  save  my  pride. 


n6  AN  UNMERRY  CHRISTMAS. 

Dinner?    Yes;  thank  you — just  a  human  body 
Done  to  a  nutty  brown,  and  a  tear  toddy 
To  give  me  appetite;  and  as  for  drink, 
About  a  half  a  jug  of  blood,  I  think, 
Will  do ;  for  still  I  love  the  red,  red  wine, 
Coagulating  well,  with  wrinkles  fine 
Fretting  the  satin  surface  of  its  flood. 

0  tope  of  kings — divine  Falernian — blood! 

Duse  take  the  shouting  fowls  upon  the  limb, 
The  kneeling  cattle  and  the  rising  hymn! 
Has  not  a  pagan  rights  to  be  regarded — 
His  heart  assaulted  and  his  ear  bombarded 
With  sentiments  and  sounds  that  good  old  Pan 
Even  in  his  demonium  would  ban  ? 

No,  friends — no  Christmas  here,  for  I  have  sworn 
To  keep  my  heart  hard  and  my  knees  unworn. 
Enough  you  have  of  jester,  player,  priest : 

1  as  the  skeleton  attend  your  feast, 
In  the  mad  revelry  to  make  a  lull 

With  shaken  finger  and  with  bobbing  skull. 

However  you  my  services  may  flout, 

Philosophy  disdain  and  reason  doubt, 

I  mean  to  hold  in  customary  state, 

My  dismal  revelry  and  celebrate 

My  yearly  rite  until  the  crack  o'  doom, 

Ignore  the  cheerful  season's  warmth  and  bloom 

And  cultivate  an  oasis  of  gloom. 


BY  A   DEFEATED   LITIGANT.  117 


BY  A  DEFEATED  LITIGANT. 

Liars  for  witnesses ;  for  lawyers  brutes 
Who  lose  their  tempers  to  retrieve  their  suits ; 
Cowards  for  jurors ;  and  for  judge  a  clown 
Who  ne'er  took  up  the  law,  yet  lays  it  down ; 
Justice  denied,  authority  abused, 
And  the  one  honest  person  the  accused — 
Thy  courts,  my  country,  all  these  awful  years, 
Move  fools  to  laughter  and  the  wise  to  tears. 


u8  AN  EPITAPH, 


AN  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies  Greer  Harrison,  a  well  cracked  louse — 

So  small  a  tenant  of  so  big  a  house ! 

He  joyed  in  fighting  with  his  eyes  (his  fist 

Prudently  pendent  from  a  peaceful  wrist) 

And  loved  to  loll  on  the  Parnassian  mount, 

His  pen  to  suck  and  all  his  thumbs  to  count, — 

What  poetry  he  'd  written  but  for  lack 

Of  skill,  when  he  had  counted,  to  count  back! 

Alas,  no  more  he  '11  climb  the  sacred  steep 

To  wake  the  lyre  and  put  the  world  to  sleep ! 

To  his  rapt  lip  his  soul  no  longer  springs 

And  like  a  jaybird  from  a  knot-hole  sings. 

No  more  the  clubmen,  pickled  with  his  wine, 

Spread    wide    their    ears    and    hiccough  "  That 's 

divine!" 

The  genius  of  his  purse  no  longer  draws 
The  pleasing  thunders  of  a  paid  applause. 
All  silent  now,  nor  sound  nor  sense  remains, 
Though  riddances  of  worms  improve  his  brains. 
All  his  no  talents  to  the  earth  revert, 
And  Fame  concludes  the  record :  "  Dirt  to  dirt !  " 


THE   POLITICIAN.  119 


THE  POLITICIAN. 

"  Let  Glory's  sons  manipulate 
The  tiller  of  the  Ship  of  State. 
Be  mine  the  humble,  useful  toil 
To  work  the  tiller  of  the  soil." 


AN  INSCRIPTION. 


AN    INSCRIPTION 

For  a  Proposed  Monument  in  Washington  to  Him  who 
Made  it  Beautiful. 


Erected  to  "Boss"  Shepherd  by  the  dear 

Good  folk  he  lived  and  moved  among  in  peace — 
Guarded  on  either  hand  by  the  police, 

With  soldiers  in  his  front  and  in  his  rear. 


FROM   VIRGINIA    TO   PARIS.  121 


FROM  VIRGINIA  TO  PARIS. 

The  polecat,  sovereign  of  its  native  wood, 
Dashes  damnation  upon  bad  and  good; 
The  health  of  all  the  upas  trees  impairs 
By  exhalations  deadlier  than  theirs; 
Poisons  the  rattlesnake  and  warts  the  toad — 
The  creeks  go  rotten  and  the  rocks  corrode! 
She  shakes  o'er  breathless  hill  and  shrinking  dale 
The  horrid  aspergillus  of  her  tail ! 
From  every  saturated  hair,  till  dry, 
The  spargent  fragrances  divergent  fly, 
Deafen  the  earth  and  scream  along  the  sky! 

Removed  to  alien  scenes,  amid  the  strife 

Of  urban  odors  to  ungladden  life — 

Where  gas  and  sewers  and  dead  dogs  conspire 

The  flesh  to  torture  and  the  soul  to  fire — 

Where  all  the  "well  defined  and  several  stinks" 

Known  to  mankind  hold  revel  and  high  jinks — 

Humbled  in  spirit,  smitten  with  a  sense 

Of  lost  distinction,  leveled  eminence, 

She  suddenly  resigns  her  baleful  trust, 

Nor  ever  lays  again  our  mortal  dust. 

Her  powers  atrophied,  her  vigor  sunk, 

She  lives  deodorized,  a  sweeter  skunk. 


122  A   "MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON.' 


A   "MUTE   INGLORIOUS    MILTON." 

"  O,  I  'm  the  Unaverage  Man, 
But  you  never  have  heard  of  me, 

For  my  brother,  the  Average  Man,  outran 
My  fame  with  rapiditee, 
And  I  'm  sunk  in  Oblivion's  sea, 

But  my  bully  big  brother  the  world  can  span 
With  his  wide  notorietee. 

I  do  everything  that  I  can 
To  make  'em  attend  to  me, 

But  the  papers  ignore  the  Unaverage  Man 
With  a  weird  uniformitee." 

So  sang  with  a  dolorous  note 

A  voice  that  I  heard  from  the  beach ; 
On  the  sable  waters  it  seemed  to  float 

Like  a  mortal  part  of  speech. 
The  sea  was  Oblivion's  sea, 

And  I  cried  as  I  plunged  to  swim : 
"  The  Unaverage  Man  shall  reside  with  me." 

But  he  did  n't — I  stayed  with  him ! 


THE  FREE  TRADER'S  LAMENT.  123 


THE    FREE   TRADER'S    LAMENT. 

Oft  from  a  trading-boat  I  purchased  spice 

And  shells  and  corals,  brought  for  my  inspection 
From  the  fair  tropics — paid  a  Christian  price 
And  was  content  in  my  fool's  paradise, 

Where  never  had  been  heard  the  word  "Protec- 
tion." 

'T  was  my  sole  island ;  there  I  dwelt  alone — 

No  customs-house,  collector  nor  collection, 
But  a  man  came,  who,  in  a  pious  tone 
Condoled  with  me  that  I  had  never  known 
The  manifest  advantage  of  Protection. 

So,  when  the  trading-boat  arrived  one  day, 
He  threw  a  stink-pot  into  its  mid-section. 
The  traders  paddled  for  their  lives  away, 
Nor  came  again  into  that  haunted  bay, 
The  blessed  home  thereafter  of  Protection. 

Then  down  he  sat,  that  philanthropic  man, 
And  spat  upon  some  mud  of  his  selection, 
And  worked  it,  with  his  knuckles  in  a  pan, 
To  shapes  of  shells  and  coral  things,  and  span 
A  thread  of  song  in  glory  of  Protection. 


124  THE   FREE    TRADER'S   LAMENT. 

He  baked  them  in  the  sun.    His  air  devout 

Enchanted  me.    I  made  a  genuflexion : 
"  God  help  you,  gentle  sir/'  I  said.    "  No  doubt," 
He  answered  gravely,  "  I  '11  get  on  without 
Assistance  now  that  we  have  got  Protection." 

Thenceforth  I  bought  his  wares — at  what  a  price 

For  shells  and  corals  of  such  imperfection! 
"Ah,  now,"  said  he,  "your  lot  is  truly  nice." 
But  still  in  all  that  isle  there  was  no  spice 
To  season  to  my  taste  that  dish,  Protection. 


SUBTERRANEAN   PHANTASIES.  125 


SUBTERRANEAN  PHANTASIES. 

I  died.     As  meekly  in  the  earth  I  lay, 
With  shriveled  fingers  reverently  folded, 

The  worm — uncivil  engineer! — my  clay 
Tunneled  industriously,  and  the  mole  did. 
My  body  could  not  dodge  them,  but  my  soul  did; 

For  that  had  flown  from  this  terrestrial  ball 

And  I  was  rid  of  it  for  good  and  all. 

So  there  I  lay,  debating  what  to  do — 
What  measures  might  most  usefully  be  taken 

To  circumvent  the  subterranean  crew 
Of  anthropophagi  and  save  my  bacon. 
My  fortitude  was  all  this  while  unshaken, 

But  any  gentleman,  of  course,  protests 

Against  receiving  uninvited  guests. 

However  proud  he  might  be  of  his  meats, 
Not  even  Apicius,  nor,  I  think,  Lucullus, 

Wasted  on  tramps  his  culinary  sweets; 

"Aut  Ccesar,"  say  judicious  hosts,  "aut  nullus." 
And  though  when  Marcius  came  unbidden  Tullus 

Aufidius  feasted  him  because  he  starved, 

Marcius  by  Tullus  afterward  was  carved. 


126  SUBTERRANEAN   PHANTASIES. 

We  feed  the  hungry,  as  the  book  commands 
(For  men  might  question  else  our  orthodoxy) 

But  do  not  care  to  see  the  outstretched  hands, 
And  so  we  minister  to  them  by  proxy. 
When  Want,  in  his  improper  person,  knocks  he 

Finds  we  're  engaged.    The  graveworm  's  very  fresh 

To  think  we  like  his  presence  in  the  flesh. 

So,  as  I  said,  I  lay  in  doubt;  in  all 

That  underworld  no  judges  could  determine 

My  rights.    When  Death  approaches  them  they  fall, 
And  falling,  naturally  soil  their  ermine. 
And  still  below  ground,  as  above,  the  vermin 

That  work  by  dark  and  silent  methods  win 

The  case — the  burial  case  that  one  is  in. 

Cases  at  law  so  slowly  get  ahead, 

Even  when  the  right  is  visibly  unclouded, 

That  if  all  men  are  classed  as  quick  and  dead, 
The  judges  all  are  dead,  though  some  unshrouded. 
Pray  Jove  that  when  they  're  actually  crowded 

On  Styx's  brink,  and  Charon  rows  in  sight, 

His  bark  prove  worse  than  Cerberus's  bite. 

Ah !  Cerberus,  if  you  had  but  begot 

A  race  of  three-mouthed  dogs  for  man  to  nourish 

And  woman  to  caress,  the  muse  had  not 
Lamented  the  decay  of  virtues  currish, 
And  triple-hydrophobia  now  would  flourish, 


SUBTERRANEAN   PHANTASIES.  127 

For  barking,  biting,  kissing  to  employ 
Canine  repeaters  were  indeed  a  joy. 

Lord !  how  we  cling  to  this  vile  world !  Here  I, 
Whose  dust  was  laid  ere  I  began  this  carping, 

By  moles  and  worms  and  such  familiar  fry 

Run  through  and  through,  am  singing  still  and 

harping 
Of  mundane  matters— flatting,  too,  and  sharping. 

I  hate  the  Angel  of  the  Sleeping  Cup : 

So  I  'm  for  getting — and  for  shutting — up. 


128  IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

Beauty  (they  called  her)  was  n't  a  maid 
Of  many  things  in  the  world  afraid. 
She  was  n't  a  maid  who  turned  and  fled 
At  sight  of  a  mouse,  alive  or  dead. 
She  was  n't  a  maid  a  man  could  "shoo" 
By  shouting,  however  abruptly,  "Boo !" 
She  was  n't  a  maid  who  'd  run  and  hide 
If  her  face  and  figure  you  idly  eyed. 
She  was  'nt  a  maid  who  'd  blush  and  shake 
When  asked  what  part  of  the  fowl  she  'd  take. 
(I  blush  myself  to  confess  she  preferred, 
And  commonly  got,  the  most  of  the  bird.) 
She  was  n't  a  maid  to  simper  because 
She  was  asked  to  sing — if  she  ever  was. 

In  short,  if  the  truth  must  be  displayed 
In  purls — Beauty  was  n't  a  maid. 
Beauty,  furry  and  fine  and  fat, 
Yawny  and  clawy,  sleek  and  all  that, 
Was  a  pampered  and  spoiled  Angora  cat! 


IN  MEMORIAM.  129 

I  loved  her  well,  and  I'm  proud  that  she 
Was  n't  indifferent,  quite,  to  me ; 
In  fact  I  have  sometimes  gone  so  far 
(You  know,  mesdames,  how  silly  men  are) 
As  to  think  she  preferred — excuse  the  conceit — 
My  legs  upon  which  to  sharpen  her  feet. 
Perhaps  it  should  n't  have  gone  for  much, 
But  I  started  and  thrilled  beneath  her  touch ! 

Ah,  well,  that 's  ancient  history  now : 

The  fingers  of  Time  have  touched  my  brow, 

And  I  hear  with  never  a  start  to-day 

That  Beauty  has  passed  from  the  earth  away. 

Gone! — her  death-song  (it  killed  her)  sung. 

Gone! — her  fiddlestrings  all  unstrung. 

Gone  to  the  bliss  of  a  new  regime 

Of  turkey  smothered  in  seas  of  cream; 

Of  roasted  mice  (a  superior  breed, 

To  science  unknown  and  the  coarser  need 

Of  the  living  cat)  cooked  by  the  flame 

Of  the  dainty  soul  of  an  erring  dame 

Who  gave  to  purity  all  her  care, 

Neglecting  the  duty  of  daily  prayer, — 

Crisp,  delicate  mice,  just  touched  with  spice 

By  the  ghost  of  a  breeze  from  Paradise ; 

A  very  digestible  sort  of  mice. 


130  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Let  scoffers  sneer,  I  propose  to  hold 

That  Beauty  has  mounted  the  Stair  of  Gold, 

To  eat  and  eat,  forever  and  aye, 

On  a  velvet  rug  from  a  golden  tray. 

But  the  human  spirit — that  is  my  creed — 

Rots  in  the  ground  like  a  barren  seed. 

That  is  my  creed,  abhorred  by  Man 

But  approved  by  Cat  since  time  began. 

Till  Death  shall  kick  at  me,  thundering  "Scat!" 

I  shall  hold  to  that,  I  shall  hold  to  that. 


THE  STATESMEN.  131 


THE    STATESMEN. 

How  blest  the  land  that  counts  among 

Her  sons  so  many  good  and  wise, 
To  execute  great  feats  of  tongue 
When  troubles  rise. 


Behold  them  mounting  every  stump 

Our  liberty  by  speech  to  guard. 
Observe  their  courage — see  them  jump 
And  come  down  hard! 

"Walk  up,  walk  up!"  each  cries  aloud, 

"And  learn  from  me  what  you  must  do 
To  turn  aside  the  thunder  cloud, 
The  earthquake  too. 

"Beware  the  wiles  of  yonder  quack 

Who  stuffs  the  ears  of  all  that  pass. 
I — I  alone  can  show  that  black 
Is  white  as  grass." 


132  THE  STATESMEN. 

They  shout  through  all  the  day  and  break 

The  silence  of  the  night  as  well. 
They  'd  make — I  wish  they'd  go  and  make — 
'  Of  Heaven  a  Hell.   " 

A  advocates  free  silver,  B 

Free  trade  and  C  free  banking  laws. 
Free  board,  clothes,  lodging  would  from  me 
Win  warm  applause. 

Lo,  D  lifts  up  his  voice:  "You  see 

The  single  tax  on  land  would  fall 
On  all  alike."     More  evenly 
No  tax  at  all. 

"With  paper  money"  bellows  E 

"We  '11  all  be  rich  as  lords."     No  doubt— 
And  richest  of  the  lot  will  be 
The  chap  without. 

As  many  "cures"  as  addle  wits 

Who  know  not  what  the  ailment  is ! 
Meanwhile  the  patient  foams  and  spits 
Like  a  gin  fizz. 

Alas,  poor  Body  Politic, 

Your  fate  is  all  too  clearly  read : 
To  be  not  altogether  quick, 
Nor  very  dead. 


THE  STATESMEN.  133 

You  take  your  exercise  in  squirms, 

Your  rest  in  fainting  fits  between. 
T  is  plain  that  your  disorder  's  worms — 
Worms  fat  and  lean. 

Worm  Capital,  Worm  Labor  dwell 

Within  your  maw  and  muscle's  scope. 
Their  quarrels  make  your  life  a  Hell, 
Your  death  a  hope. 

God  send  you  find  not  such  an  end 

To  ills  however  sharp  and  huge! 
God  send  you  convalesce !    God  send 
You  vermifuge. 


134  THE  BROTHERS. 


THE    BROTHERS. 

Scene — A  lawyer's  dreadful  den. 
Enter  stall-fed  citizen. 

LAWYER. — 'Mornin'.    How-de-do? 

CITIZEN. — Sir,  same  to  you. 
Called  as  counsel  to  retain  you 
In  a  case  that  I  '11  explain  you. 
Sad,  so  sad!  Heart  almost  broke. 
Hang  it!  where's  my  kerchief?     Smoke? 
Brother,  sir,  and  I,  of  late, 
Came  into  a  large  estate. 
Brother  's — h'm,  ha, — rather  queer 
Sometimes  (tapping  forehead)  here. 
What  he  needs — you  know — a  "writ" — 
Something,  eh?  that  will  permit 
Me  to  manage,  sir,  in  fine, 
His  estate,  as  well  as  mine. 
'Course  he  '11  kick;  't  will  break,  I  fear, 
His  loving  heart — excuse  this  tear. 

LAWYER. — Have  you  nothing  more  ? 
All  of  this  you  said  before — 
When  last  night  I  took  your  case. 
CITIZEN. — Why,  sir,  your  face 
Ne'er  before  has  met  my  view ! 

LAWYER.— Eh  ?    The  devil !    True : 
My  mistake — it  was  your  brother. 
But  you  're  very  like  each  other. 


THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST.  135 


THE    CYNICS    BEQUEST. 

In  that  fair  city,  Ispahan, 

There  dwelt  a  problematic  man, 

Whose  angel  never  was  released, 

Who  never  once  let  out  his  beast, 

But  kept,  through  all  the  seasons'  round, 

Silence  unbroken  and  profound. 

No  Prophecy,  with  ear  applied 

To  key-hole  of  the  future,  tried 

Successfully  to  catch  a  hint 

Of  what  he  'd  do  nor  when  begin  't ; 

As  sternly  did  his  past  defy 

Mild  Retrospection's  backward  eye. 

Though  all  admired  his  silent  ways, 

The  women  loudest  were  in  praise: 

For  ladies  love  those  men  the  most 

Who  never,  never,  never  boast — 

Who  ne'er  disclose  their  aims  and  ends 

To  naughty,  naughty,  naughty  friends. 

Yet,  sooth  to  say,  the  fame  outran 

The  merit  of  this  doubtful  man, 

For  taciturnity  in  him, 

Though  not  a  mere  caprice  or  whim, 

Was  not  a  virtue,  such  as  truth, 

High  birth,  or  beauty,  wealth  or  youth. 


136  THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST. 

'T  was  known,  indeed,  throughout  the  span 

Of  Ispahan,  of  Gulistan — 

These  utmost  limits  of  the  earth 

Knew  that  the  man  was  dumb  from  birth. 

Unto  the  Sun  with  deep  salaams 

The  Parsee  spreads  his  morning  palms 

(A  beacon  blazing  on  a  height 

Warms  o'er  his  piety  by  night.) 

The  Moslem  deprecates  the  deed, 

Cuts  off  the  head  that  holds  the  creed, 

Then  reverently  goes  to  grass, 

Muttering  thanks  to  Balaam's  Ass 

For  faith  and  learning  to  refute 

Idolatry  so  dissolute! 

But  should  a  maniac  dash  past, 

With  straws  in  beard  and  hands  upcast, 

To  him  (through  whom,  whene'er  inclined 

To  preach  a  bit  to  Madmankind, 

The  Holy  Prophet  speaks  his  mind) 

Our  True  Believer  lifts  his  eyes 

Devoutly  and  his  prayer  applies ; 

But  next  to  Solyman  the  Great 

Reveres  the  idiot's  sacred  state. 

Small  wonder  then,  our  worthy  mute 

Was  held  in  popular  repute. 

Had  he  been  blind  as  well  as  mum, 

Been  lame  as  well  as  blind  and  dumb, 


THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST.  137 

No  bard  that  ever  sang  or  soared 

Could  say  how  he  had  been  adored. 

More  meagerly  endowed,  he  drew 

An  homage  less  prodigious.     True, 

No  soul  his  praises  but  did  utter — 

All  plied  him  with  devotion's  butter, 

But  none  had  out — 't  was  to  their  credit — 

The  proselyting  sword  to  spread  it. 

I  state  these  truths,  exactly  why 

The  reader  knows  as  well  as  I ; 

They  've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

With  what  I  hope  we  're  coming  to 

If  Pegasus  be  good  enough 

To  move  when  he  has  stood  enough. 

Egad!  his  ribs  I  would  examine 

Had  I  a  sharper  spur  than  famine, 

Or  even  with  that  if  't  would  incline 

To  examine  his  instead  of  mine. 

Where  was  I?    Ah,  that  silent  man 

Who  dwelt  one  time  in  Ispahan — 

He  had  a  name — was  known  to  all 

As  Meerza  Solyman  Zingall. 

There  lived  afar  in  Astrabad, 
A  man  the  world  agreed  was  mad, 
So  wickedly  he  broke  his  joke 
Upon  the  heads  of  duller  folk, 
So  miserly,  from  day  to  day, 


138  THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST. 

He  gathered  up  and  hid  away 
In  vaults  obscure  and  cellars  haunted 
What  many  worthy  people  wanted. 
A  stingy  man! — the  tradesmen's  palms 
Were  spread  in  vain :    "I  give  no  alms 
Without  inquiry" — so  he  'd  say, 
And  beat  the  needy  duns  away. 
The  bastinado  did,  't  is  true, 
Persuade  him,  now  and  then,  a  few 
Odd  tens  of  thousands  to  disburse 
To  glut  the  taxman's  hungry  purse, 
But  still,  so  rich  he  grew,  his  fear 
Was  constant  that  the  Shah  might  hear. 
(The  Shah  had  heard  it  long  ago, 
And  asked  the  taxman  if  't  were  so, 
Who  promptly  answered,  rather  airish, 
The  man  had  long  been  on  the  parish.) 
The  more  he  feared,  the  more  he  grew 
A  cynic  and  a  miser,  too, 
Until  his  bitterness  and  pelf 
Made  him  a  terror  to  himself; 
Then,  with  a  razor's  neckwise  stroke, 
He  tartly  cut  his  final  joke. 
So  perished,  not  an  hour  too  soon, 
The  wicked  Muley  Ben  Maroon. 

From  Astrabad  to  Ispahan 

At  camel  speed  the  rumor  ran 

That,  breaking  through  tradition  hoar, 


THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST.  139 

And  throwing  all  his  kinsmen  o'er, 

The  miser  'd  left  his  mighty  store 

Of  gold — his  palaces  and  lands — 

To  needy  and  deserving  hands 

(Except  a  penny  here  and  there 

To  pay  the  dervishes  for  prayer.) 

'T  was  known  indeed  throughout  the  span 

Of  earth,  and  into  Hindostan, 

That  our  beloved  mute  was  the 

Residuary  legatee. 

The  people  said  't  was  very  well, 

And  each  man  had  a  tale  to  tell 

Of  how  he  'd  had  a  finger  in  't 

By  dropping  many  a  friendly  hint 

At  Astrabad,  you  see.     But  ah, 

They  feared  the  news  might  reach  the  Shah ! 

To  prove  the  will  the  lawyers  bore  't 

Before  the  Kadi's  awful  court, 

Who  nodded,  when  he  heard  it  read, 

Confirmingly  his  drowsy  head, 

Nor  thought,  his  sleepiness  so  great, 

Himself  to  gobble  the  estate. 

"I  give,"  the  dead  had  writ,  "my  all 

To  Meerza  Solyman  Zingall 

Of  Ispahan.    With  this  estate 

I  might  quite  easily  create 

Ten  thousand  ingrates,  but  I  shun 

Temptation  and  create  but  one, 

In  whom  the  whole  unthankful  crew 


140  THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST. 

The  rich  man's  air  that  ever  drew 
To  fat  their  pauper  lungs  I  fire 
Vicarious  with  vain  desire! 
From  foul  Ingratitude's  base  rout 
I  pick  this  hapless  devil  out, 
Bestowing  on  him  all  my  lands, 
My  treasures,  camels,  slaves  and  bands 
Of  wives — I  give  him  all  this  loot, 
And  throw  my  blessing  in  to  boot. 
Behold,  O  man,  in  this  bequest 
Philanthropy's  long  wrongs  redressed: 
To  speak  me  ill  that  man  I  dower 
With  fiercest  will  who  lacks  the  power. 
Allah  il  Allah !  now  let  him  bloat 
With  rancor  till  his  heart's  afloat, 
Unable  to  discharge  the  wave 
Upon  his  benefactor's  grave!" 

Forth  in  their  wrath  the  people  came 
And  swore  it  was  a  sin  and  shame 
To  trick  their  blessed  mute;  and  each 
Protested,  serious  of  speech, 
That  though  he  'd  long  foreseen  the  worst 
He  'd  been  against  it  from  the  first. 
By  various  means  they  vainly  tried 
The  testament  to  set  aside, 
Each  ready  with  his  empty  purse 
To  take  upon  himself  the  curse; 


THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST.  141 

For  they  had  powers  of  invective 
Enough  to  make  it  ineffective. 
The  ingrates  mustered,  every  man, 
And  marched  in  force  to  Ispahan 
(Which  had  not  quite  accommodation) 
And  held  a  camp  of  indignation. 

The  man,  this  while,  who  never  spoke — 

On  whom  had  fallen  this  thunder-stroke 

Of  fortune,  gave  no  feeling  vent 

Nor  dropped  a  clue  to  his  intent. 

Whereas  no  power  to  him  came 

His  benefactor  to  defame, 

Some  (such  a  length  had  slander  gone  to) 

Even  whispered  that  he  didn't  want  to! 

But  none  his  secret  could  divine; 

If  suffering  he  made  no  sign, 

Until  one  night  as  winter  neared 

From  all  his  haunts  he  disappeared — 

Evanished  in  a  doubtful  blank 

Like  little  crayfish  in  a  bank, 

Their  heads  retracting  for  a  spell, 

And  pulling  in  their  holes  as  well. 

All  through  the  land  of  Gul,  the  stout 
Young  Spring  is  kicking  Whiter  out. 
The  grass  sneaks  in  upon  the  scene, 
Defacing  it  with  bottle-green. 


142  THE  CYNICS  BEQUEST. 

The  stumbling  lamb  arrives  to  ply 
His  restless  tail  in  every  eye, 
Eats  nasty  mint  to  spoil  his  meat 
And  make  himself  unfit  to  eat. 
Madly  his  throat  the  bulbul  tears — 
In  every  grove  blasphemes  and  swears 
As  the  immodest  rose  displays 
Her  shameless  charms  a  dozen  ways. 
Lo!  now,  throughout  the  utmost  span 
Of  Ispahan — of  Gulistan — 
A  big  new  book  's  displayed  in  all 
The  shops  and  cumbers  every  stall. 
The  price  is  low — the  dealers  say  't  is— 
And  the  rich  are  treated  to  it  gratis. 
Engraven  on  its  foremost  page 
These  title- words  the  eye  engage: 
"The  Life  of  Muley  Ben  Maroon, 
Of  Astrabad— Rogue,  Thief,  Buffoon 
And  Miser — Liver  by  the  Sweat 
Of  Better  Men :  A  Lamponette 
Composed  in  Rhyme  and  Written  all 
By  Meerza  Solyman  Zingall !" 


CORRECTED  NEWS.  143 


CORRECTED    NEWS. 

'T  was  a  maiden  lady  (the  newspapers  say) 
Pious  and  prim  and  a  bit  gone-gray. 
She  slept  like  an  angel,  holy  and  white, 
Till  ten  o'  the  clock  in  the  shank  o'  the  night 
(When  men  and  other  wild  animals  prey) 
And  then  she  cried  in  the  viewless  gloom: 
"There  's  a  man  in  the  room,  a  man  in  the  room !" 
And  this  maiden  lady  (they  make  it  appear) 
Leapt  out  of  the  window,  five  fathom  sheer! 

Alas,  that  lying  is  such  a  sin 

When  newspaper  men  need  bread  and  gin 

And  none  can  be  had  for  less  than  a  lie! 
For  the  maiden  lady  a  bit  gone-gray 
Saw  the  man  in  the  room  from  across  the  way, 
And  leapt,  not  out  of  the  window  but  in  — 

Ten  fathom  sheer,  as  I  hope  to  die! 


144  AN  EXPLANATION. 


AN    EXPLANATION. 

"I  never  yet  exactly  could  determine 

Just  how  it  is  that  the  judicial  ermine 

Is  kept  so  safely  from  predacious  vermin." 

"It  is  not  so,  my  friend :  though  in  a  garret 
'T  is  kept  in  camphor,  and  you  often  air  it, 
The  vermin  will  get  into  it  and  wear  it." 


JUSTICE.  145 


JUSTICE. 

Jack  Doe  met  Dick  Roe,  whose  wife  he  loved, 
And  said :    "I  will  get  the  best  of  him." 

So  pulling  a  knife  from  his  boot,  he  shoved 
It  up  to  the  hilt  in  the  breast  of  him. 

Then  he  moved  that  weapon  forth  and  back, 
Enlarging  the  hole  he  had  made  with  it, 

Till  the  smoking  liver  fell  out,  and  Jack 
Merrily,  merrily  played  with  it. 

Then  he  reached  within  and  he  seized  the  slack 
Of  the  lesser  bowel,  and,  traveling 

Hither  and  thither,  looked  idly  back 
On  that  small  intestine,  raveling. 

The  wretched  Richard,  with  many  a  grin 

Laid  on  with  exceeding  suavity, 
Curled  up  and  died,  and  they  ran  John  in 

And  charged  him  with  sins  of  gravity. 

The  case  was  tried  and  a  verdict  found : 

The  jury,  with  great  humanity, 
Acquitted  the  prisoner  on  the  ground 

Of  extemporary  insanity. 


146  MR.  FINK'S  DEBATING  DONKEY. 


MR.  FINK'S  DEBATING  DONKEY. 

Of  a  person  known  as  Peters  I  will  humbly  crave  your 

leave 

An  unusual  adventure  into  narrative  to  weave — 
Mr.  William  Perry  Peters,  of  the  town  of  Muscatel, 
A  public  educator  and  an  orator  as  well. 
Mr.  Peters  had  a  weakness  which,  't  is  painful  to  relate, 
Was  a  strong  predisposition  to  the  pleasures  of  debate. 
He  would  foster  disputation  wheresoever  he  might  be ; 
In  polygonal  contention  none  so  happy  was  as  he. 
'T  was  observable,  however,  that  the  exercises  ran 
Into  monologue  by  Peters,  that  rhetorical  young  man. 
And  the  Muscatelian  rustics  who  assisted  at  the  show, 
By   involuntary   silence  testified  their  overthrow — 
Mr.   Peters,  all  unheedful  of  their  silence  and  their 

grief, 

Still  effacing  every  vestige  of  erroneous  belief. 
O,  he  was  a  sore  affliction  to  all  heretics  so  bold 
As  to  entertain  opinions  that  he  didn't  care  to  hold. 

One  day — 't  was  in  pursuance  of  a  pedagogic  plan 
For  the  mental  elevation  of  Uncultivated  Man — 


MR.  FINK'S  DEBATING  DONKEY.  147 

Mr.  Peters,  to  his  pupils,  in  dismissing  them,  explained 
That  the  Friday  evening  following  (unless,  indeed,  it 

rained) 
Would  be  signalized  by  holding  in  the  schoolhouse  a 

debate 

Free  to  all  who  their  opinions  might  desire  to  venti- 
late 

On  the  question,  "Which  is  better,  as  a  serviceable  gift, 
Speech  or  hearing,  from  barbarity  the  human  mind  to 

lift?" 

The  pupils   told   their   fathers,   who,   forehanded   al- 
ways, met 
At  the  barroom  to  discuss  it  every  evening,  dry  or 

wet, 

They  argued  it  and  argued  it  and  spat  upon  the  stove, 
And  the  non-committal  "barkeep"  on  their  differences 

throve. 

And  I  state  it  as  a  maxim  in  a  loosish  kind  of  way: 
You  '11  have  the  more  to  back  your  word  the  less  you 

have  to  say. 

Public  interest  was  lively,  but  one  Ebenezer  Fink 
Of  the  Rancho  del  Jackrabbit,  only  seemed  to  sit  and 
think. 

On  the  memorable  evening  all  the  men  of  Muscatel 
Came  to  listen  to  the  logic  and  the  eloquence  as  well — 
All  but  William  Perry  Peters,  whose  attendance  there, 
I  fear, 


148  MR.  FINK'S  DEBATING  DONKEY. 

Was  to  wreak  his  ready  rhetoric  upon  the  public  ear, 
And  prove  (whichever  side  he  took)  that  hearing 

would  n't  lift 

The  human  mind  as  ably  as  the  other,  greater  gift. 
The  judges  being  chosen  and  the  disputants  enrolled, 
The  question  he  proceeded  in  extenso  to  unfold: 
"Resolved — The  sense  of  hearing  lifts  the  mind  up  out 

of  reach 

Of  the  fogs  of  error  better  than  the  faculty  of  speech." 
This  simple  proposition  he  expounded,  word  by  word, 
Until  they  best  understood  it  who  least  perfectly  had 

heard. 

Even  the  judges  comprehended  as  he  ventured  to  ex- 
plain— 

The  impact  of  a  spit-ball  admonishing  in  vain. 
Beginning  at  a  period  before  Creation's  morn, 
He  had  reached  the  bounds  of  tolerance  and  Adam  yet 

unborn. 

As  down  the  early  centuries  of  pre-historic  time 
He  tracked  important  principles  and  quoted  striking 

rhyme, 
And  Whisky  Bill,   prosaic  soul !  proclaiming  him  a 

jay, 
Had  risen  and  like  an  earthquake,  "reeled  unheededly 

away," 
And  a  late  lamented  cat,  when   opportunity  should 

serve, 
Was  preparing  to  embark  upon  her  parabolic  curve, 


MR.  FINK'S  DEBATING  DONKEY.  149 

A  noise  arose  outside — the  door  was  opened  with  a 

bang 
And    old     Ebenezer     Fink    was     heard    ejaculating 

"G'lang!" 
Straight  into  that  assembly  gravely  marched  without  a 

wink 

An  ancient  ass — the  property  it  was  of  Mr.  Fink. 
Its  ears  depressed  and  beating  time  to  its  infestive 

tread, 

Silent  through  silence  moved  amain  that  stately  quad- 
ruped ! 
It  stopped  before  the  orator,   and  in   the  lamplight 

thrown 
Upon  its  tail  they  saw  that  member  weighted  with  a 

stone. 
Then  spake  old  Ebenezer:     "Gents,  I  heern  o'  this 

debate 

On  w'ether  v'ice  or  y'ears  is  best  the  mind  to  elevate. 
Now  'yer's  a  bird  ken  throw  some  light  uponto  that 

tough  theme: 

He  has  'em  both,  I  'm  free  to  say,  oncommonly  extreme. 
He  wa'n't  invited  for  to  speak,  but  he  will  not  refuse 
(If  t'  other  gentleman  ken  wait)  to  exposay  his  views." 

Ere  merriment  or  anger  o'er  amazement  could  prevail, 
He  cut  the  string  that  held  the  stone  on  that  canary's 
tail. 


150  MR.  FINK'S  DEBATING  DONKEY. 

Freed  from  the  weight,  that  member  made  a  gesture  of 
delight, 

Then  rose  until  its  rigid  length  <was  horizontal  quite. 

With  lifted  head  and  level  ears  along  his  withers  laid, 

Jack  sighed,  refilled  his  lungs  and  then — to  put  it  mild- 
ly— brayed ! 

He  brayed  until  the  stones  were  stirred  in  circumjacent 
hills, 

And  sleeping  women  rose  and  fled,  in  divers  kinds  of 
frills. 

'T  is  said  that  awful  bugle-blast — to  make  the  story 
brief — 

Wafted  William  Perry  Peters  through  the  window, 
like  a  leaf! 

Such  is  the  tale.     If  anything  additional  occurred 
'T  is  not  set  down,  though,  truly,  I  remember  to  have 

heard 
That   a  gentleman   named   Peters,   now   residing  at 

Sequel, 

A  considerable  distance  from  the  town  of  Muscatel, 
Is  opposed  to  education,  and  to  rhetoric,  as  well. 


TO  MY  LAUNDRESS.  151 


TO    MY    LAUNDRESS. 

Saponacea,  wert  thou  not  so  fair 

I'd  curse  thee  for  thy  multitude  of  sins — 
For  sending  home  my  clothes  all  full  of  pins — 

A  shirt  occasionally  that's  a  snare 

And  a  delusion,  got,  the  Lord  knows  where, 

The  Lord  knows  why — a  sock  whose  outs  and  ins 
None  know,  nor  where  it  ends  nor  where  begins, 

And  fewer  cuffs  than  ought  to  be  my  share. 

But  when  I  mark  thy  lilies  how  they  grow, 
And  the  red  roses  of  thy  ripening  charms, 

I  bless  the  lovelight  in  thy  dark  eyes  dreaming. 

I  '11  never  pay  thee,  but  I  'd  gladly  go 
Into  the  magic  circle  of  thine  arms, 

Supple  and  fragrant  from  repeated  steaming. 


152  FAME. 


FAME. 

One  thousand  years  I  slept  beneath  the  sod, 

My  sleep  in  1901  beginning, 
Then,  by  the  action  of  some  scurvy  god 

Who  happened  then  to  recollect  my  sinning, 

I  was  revived  and  given  another  inning. 
On  breaking  from  my  grave  I  saw  a  crowd — 

A  formless  multitude  of  men  and  women, 
Gathered  about  a  ruin.    Clamors  loud 

I  heard,  and  curses  deep  enough  to  swim  in ; 

And,  pointing  at  me,  one  said :   "Let 's  put  him  in." 
Then  each  turned  on  me  with  an  evil  look, 
As  in  my  ragged  shroud  I  stood  and  shook. 

"Nay,  good  Posterity,"  I  cried,  "forbear! 
If  that 's  a  jail  I  fain  would  be  remaining 

Outside,  for  truly  I  should  little  care 

To  catch  my  death  of  cold.    I  'm  just  regaining 
The  life  lost  long  ago  by  my  disdaining 

To  take  precautions  against  draughts  like  those 
That,  haply,  penetrate  that  cracked  and  splitting 

Old  structure."    Then  an  aged  wight  arose 

From  a  chair  of  state  in  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
And  with  preliminary  coughing,  spitting 


FAME.  153 

And  wheezing,  said :    "  T  is  not  a  jail,  we  're  sure, 
Whate'er  it  may  have  been  when  it  was  newer. 

"  'T  was  found  two  centuries  ago,  o'ergrown 
With  brush  and  ivy,  all  undoored,  ungated; 

And  in  restoring  it  we  found  a  stone 
Set  here  and  there  in  the  dilapidated 
And  crumbling  frieze,  inscribed,  in  antiquated 

Big  characters,  with  certain  uncouth  names, 
Which  we  conclude  were  borne  of  old  by  awful 

Rapscallions  guilty  of  all  sinful  games — 
Vagrants  engaged  in  purposes  unlawful, 
And  orators  less  sensible  than  j awful. 

So  each  ten  years  we  add  to  the  long  row 

A  name,  the  most  unworthy  that  we  know." 


"But  why,"  I  asked,  "put  me  in  ?"     He  replied : 

"You  look  it" — and  the  judgment  pained  me  greatly ; 
Right  gladly  would  I  then  and  there  have  died, 

But  that  I  'd  risen  from  the  grave  so  lately. 

But  on  examining  that  solemn,  stately 
Old  ruin  I  remarked:    "My  friend,  you  err — 

The  truth  of  this  is  just  what  I  expected. 
This  building  in  its  time  made  quite  a  stir. 

I  lived  (was  famous,  too)  when  't  was  erected. 

The  names  here  first  inscribed  were  much  respected. 
This  is  the  Hall  of  Fame,  or  I  ''m  a  stork, 
And  this  goat  pasture  once  was  called  New  York." 


154  OMNES  VANITAS. 


OMNES    VANITAS. 

Alas  for  ambition's  possessor! 

Alas  for  the  famous  and  proud ! 
The  Isle  of  Manhattan's  best  dresser 

Is  wearing  a  hand-me-down  shroud. 

The  world  has  forgotten  his  glory; 

The  wagoner  sings  on  his  wain, 
And  Chauncey  Depew  tells  a  story, 

And  jackasses  laugh  in  the  lane. 


ASPIRATION.  155 


ASPIRATION. 

No  man  can  truthfully  say  that  he  would  not  like  to 
be  President. — William  C.  Whitney. 

Lo!  the  wild  rabbit,  happy  in  the  pride 
Of  qualities  to  meaner  beasts  denied, 
Surveys  the  ass  with  reverence  and  fear, 
Adoring  his  superior  length  of  ear, 
And  says :    "No  living  creature,  lean  or  fat, 
But  wishes  in  his  heart  to  be  like  That !" 


156  DEMOCRACY. 


DEMOCRACY. 

Let  slaves  and  subjects  with  unvaried  psalms 
Before  their  sovereign  execute  salaams ; 
The  freeman  scorns  one  idol  to  adore — 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  and  himself  are  four. 


THE  NEW  "  ULALUME."  157 


THE    NEW    "ULALUME." 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, — 

"  withering  "       " 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, — 
"     "    down   "     "    dark  tarn  " 

In    the    misty    mid     region     of     Weir, — 
"     "  ghoul-haunted  woodland "         "     , 


158  CONSOLATION. 


CONSOLATION. 

Little  's  the  good  to  sit  and  grieve 
Because  the  serpent  tempted  Eve. 
Better  to  wipe  your  eyes  and  take 
A  club  and  go  out  and  kill  a  snake. 

What  do  you  gain  by  cursing  Nick 
For  playing  her  such  a  scurvy  trick? 
Better  go  out  and  some  villain  find 
Who  serves  the  devil,  and  beat  him  blind. 

But  if  you  prefer,  as  I  suspect, 

To  philosophize,  why,  then,  reflect: 

If  the  cunning  rascal  upon  the  limb 

Had  n't  tempted  her  she  'd  have  tempted  him. 


FATE.  159 


FATE. 

Alas,  alas,  for  the  tourist's  guide! — 
He  turned  from  the  beaten  trail  aside, 
Wandered  bewildered,  lay  down  and  died. 

O  grim  is  the  Irony  of  Fate: 

It  switches  the  man  of  low  estate 

And  loosens  the  dogs  upon  the  great. 

It  lights  the  fireman  to  roast  the  cook ; 
The  fisherman  squirms  upon  the  hook, 
And  the  flirt  is  slain  with  a  tender  look. 

The  undertaker  it  overtakes ; 

It  saddles  the  cavalier,  and  makes 

The  haughtiest  butcher  into  steaks. 

Assist  me,  gods,  to  balk  the  decree ! 
Nothing  I  '11  do  and  nothing  I  '11  be, 
In  order  that  nothing  be  done  to  me. 


160  PHILOSOPHER  BIMM. 


PHILOSOPHER  BIMM. 

Republicans  think  Jonas  Bimm 

A  Democrat  gone  mad, 
And  Democrats  consider  him 

Republican  and  bad. 

The  Tough  reviles  him  as  a  Dude 
And  gives  it  him  right  hot; 

The  Dude  condemns  his  crassitude 
And  calls  him  sans  culottes. 

Derided  as  an  Anglophile 
By  Anglophobes,  forsooth, 

As  Anglophobe  he  feels,  the  while, 
The  Anglophilic  tooth. 

The  Churchman  calls  him  Atheist; 

The  Atheists,  rough-shod, 
Have  ridden  o'er  him  long  and  hissed 

"The  wretch  believes  in  God !" 

The  Saints  whom  clergymen  we  call 
Would  kill  him  if  they  could; 

The  Sinners  (scientists  and  all) 
Complain  that  he  is  good. 


PHILOSOPHER  BIMM.  161 

All  men  deplore  the  difference 
Between  themselves  and  him, 

And  all  devise  expedients 
For  paining  Jonas  Bimm. 

I  too,  with  wild  demoniac  glee, 
Would  put  out  both  his  eyes; 

For  Mr.  Bimm  appears  to  me 
Insufferably  wise! 


162  REMINDED. 


REMINDED. 

Beneath  my  window  twilight  made 
Familiar  mysteries  of  shade. 
Faint  voices  from  the  darkening  down 
Were  calling  vaguely  to  the  town. 

Intent  upon  a  low,  far  gleam 

That  burned  upon  the  world's  extreme, 

I  sat,  with  short  reprieve  from  grief, 

And  turned  the  volume,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Wherein  a  hand,  long  dead,  had  wrought 

A  million  miracles  of  thought. 

My  fingers  carelessly  unclung 

The  lettered  pages,  and  among 

Them  wandered  witless,  nor  divined 

The  wealth  in  which,  poor  fools,  they  mined. 

The  soul  that  should  have  led  their  quest 

W^as  dreaming  in  the  level  west, 

Where  a  tall  tower,  stark  and  still, 

Uplifted  on  a  distant  hill, 

Stood  lone  and  passionless  to  claim 

Its  guardian  star's  returning  flame. 


REMINDED.  163 

I  know  not  how  my  dream  was  broke, 

But  suddenly  my  spirit  woke 

Filled  with  a  foolish  fear  to  look 

Upon  the  hand  that  clove  the  book, 

Significantly  pointing;  next 

I  bent  attentive  to  the  text, 

And  read — and  as  I  read  grew  old — 

The  mindless  words :  "Poor  Tom's  a-cold !  " 

Ah  me!  to  what  a  subtle  touch 
The  brimming  cup  resigns  its  clutch 
Upon  the  wine.    Dear  God,  is  't  writ 
That  hearts  their  overburden  bear 
Of  bitterness  though  thou  permit 
The  pranks  of  Chance,  alurk  in  nooks, 
And  striking  coward  blows  from  books, 
And  dead  hands  reaching  everywhere? 


164  SALVINI  IN  AMERICA. 


SALVINI  IN  AMERICA. 

Come,   gentlemen — your  gold. 

Thanks :  welcome  to  the  show, 
To  hear  a  story  told 

In  words  you  do  not  know. 

Now,  great  Salvini,  rise 

And  thunder  through  your  tears, 
Aha !  friends,  let  your  eyes 

Interpret  to  your  ears. 

Gods !  't  is  a  goodly  game. 

Observe  his  stride — how  grand ! 
When  legs  like  his  declaim 

Who  can  misunderstand? 

See  how  that  arm  goes  round. 

It  says,  as  plain  as  day : 
"I  love,"  "The  lost  is  found," 

"Well  met,  sir,"  or,  "Away!" 

And  mark  the  drawing  down 
Of  brows.    How  accurate 

The  language  of  that  frown  : 
Pain,  gentlemen — or  hate. 


SALVINI  IN  AMERICA.  165 

Those  of  the  critic  trade 

Swear  it  is  all  as  clear 
As  if  his  tongue  were  made 

To  fit  an  English  ear. 

Hear  that  Italian  phrase ! 

Greek  to  your  sense,  't  is  true  ; 
But  shrug,  expression,  gaze — 

Well,  they  are  Grecian  too. 

But  it  is  Art !    God  wot 

Its  tongue  to  all  is  known. 
Faith !  he  to  whom  't  were  not 

Would  better  hold  his  own. 

Shakespeare  says  act  and  word 

Must  match  together  true. 
From  what  you  've  seen  and  heard, 

How  can  you  doubt  they  do? 

Enchanting  drama!     Mark 

The  crowd  "from  pit  to  dome", 

One  box  alone  is  dark — 
The  prompter  stays  at  home. 

Stupendous  artist!    You 

Are  lord  of  joy  and  woe : 
We  thrill  if  you  say  "Boo," 

And  thrill  if  you  say  "Bo." 


166  ANOTHER  WAY. 


ANOTHER  WAY. 

I.  lay  in  silence,  dead.    A  woman  came 
And  laid  a  rose  upon  my  breast  and  said : 

"May  God  be  merciful."     She  spoke  my  name, 
And  added :    "It  is  strange  to  think  him  dead. 

"He  loved  me  well  enough,  but  't  was  his  way 
To  speak  it  lightly."     Then,  beneath  her  breath 

"Besides" — I  knew  what  further  she  would  say, 
But  then  a  footfall  broke  my  dream  of  death. 

To-day  the  words  are  mine.    I  lay  the  rose 
Upon  her  breast,  and  speak  her  name  and  deem 

It  strange  indeed  that  she  is  dead.    God  knows 
I  had  more  pleasure  in  the  other  dream. 


ART.  167 


ART. 

For  Gladstone's  portrait  five  thousand  pounds 
Were  paid,  't  is  said,  to  Sir  John  Millais. 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  such  fine  pay 

Transcended  reason's  uttermost  bounds. 

For  it  seems  to  me  uncommonly  queer 
That  a  painted  British  stateman's  price 
Exceeds  the  established  value  thrice 

Of  a  living  statesman  over  here. 


168  AN  ENEMY  TO  LAW  AND  ORDER. 


AN  ENEMY  TO  LAW  AND  ORDER. 

A  is  defrauded  of  his  land  by  B, 
Who  's  driven  from  the  premises  by  C. 
D  buys  the  place  with  coin  of  plundered  E. 
"That  A's  an  Anarchist !"  says  F  to  G. 


TO  ONE  ACROSS  THE  WAY.  169 


TO    ONE   ACROSS    THE   WAY. 

When  at  your  window  radiant  you  've  stood 

I  've  sometimes  thought — forgive  me  if  I've  erred — 
That  some  slight  thought  of  me  perhaps  has  stirred 

Your  heart  to  beat  less  gently  than  it  should. 

I  know  you  beautiful;  that  you  are  good 
I  hope — or  fear — I  cannot  choose  the  word, 
Nor  rightly  suit  it  to  the  thought.    I  've  heard 

Reason  at  love's  dictation  never  could. 

Blindly  to  this  dilemma  so  I  grope, 

As  one  whose  every  pathway  has  a  snare : 
If  you  are  minded  in  the  saintly  fashion 

Of  your  pure  face  my  passion  's  without  hope ; 
If  not,  alas !     I  equally  despair, 
For  what  to  me  were  hope  without  the  passion  ? 


170  THE  DEBTOR  ABROAD. 


THE  DEBTOR  ABROAD. 

Grief  for  an  absent  lover,  husband,  friend, 
Is  barely  felt  before  it  comes  to  end: 
A  score  of  early  consolations  serve 
To  modify  its  mouth's  dejected  curve. 
But  woes  of  creditors  when  debtors  flee 
Forever  swell  the  separating  sea. 
When  standing  on  an  alien  shore  you  mark 
The  steady  course  of  some  intrepid  bark, 
How  sweet  to  think  a  tear  for  you  abides, 
Not  all  unuseful,  in  the  wave  she  rides ! — 
That  sighs  for  you  commingle  in  the  gale 
Beneficently  bellying  her  sail ! 


FORESIGHT.  171 


FORESIGHT. 

An  "actors'  cemetery"  !    Sure 
The  devil  never  tires 

Of  planning  places  to  procure 
The  sticks  to  feed  his  fires. 


172  A  FAIR  DIVISION. 


A  FAIR  DIVISION. 

Another  Irish  landlord  gone  to  grass, 
Slain  by  the  bullets  of  the  tenant  class ! 
Pray,  good  agrarians,  what  wrong  requires 
Such  foul  redress?    Between  you  and  the  squires 
All  Ireland  's  parted  with  an  even  hand — 
For  you  have  all  the  ire,  they  all  the  land. 


GENESIS.  173 


GENESIS. 

God  said :    "Let  there  be  Man,"  and  from  the  clay 

Adam  came  forth  and,  thoughtful,  walked  away. 

The  matrix  whence  his  body  was  obtained, 

An  empty,  man-shaped  cavity,  remained 

All  unregarded  from  that  early  time 

Till  in  a  recent  storm  it  filled  with  slime. 

Now  Satan,  envying  the  Master's  power 

To  make  the  meat  himself  could  but  devour, 

Strolled  to  the  place  and,  standing  by  the  pool, 

Exerted  all  his  will  to  make  a  fool. 

A  miracle! — from  out  that  ancient  hole 

Rose  Morehouse,  lacking  nothing  but  a  soul. 

"To  give  him  that  I've  not  the  power  divine," 

Said  Satan,  sadly,  "but  I'll  lend  him  mine." 

He  breathed  it  into  him,  a  vapor  black, 

And  to  this  day  has  never  got  it  back. 


174  LIBERTY. 


LIBERTY. 

"'Let  there  be  Liberty!'  God  said,  and,  lo! 
The  red  skies  all  were  luminous.    The  glow 

Struck  first  Columbia's  kindling  mountain  peaks 
One  hundred  and  eleven  years  ago !" 

So  sang  a  patriot  whom  once  I  saw 
Descending  Bunker's  holy  hill.     With  awe 

I  noted  that  he  shone  with  sacred  light, 
Like  Moses  with  the  tables  of  the  Law. 

One  hundred  and  eleven  years  ?  O  small 
And  paltry  period  compared  with  all 

The  tide  of  centuries  that  flowed  and  ebbed 
To  etch  Yosemite's  divided  wall ! 

Ah,  Liberty,  they  sing  you  always  young 
Whose  harps  are  in  your  adoration  strung 

(Each  swears  you  are  his  countrywoman,  too, 
And  speak  no  language  but  his  mother  tongue). 

And  truly,  lass,  although  with  shout  and  horn 
Man  has  all-hailed  you  from  creation's  morn, 

I  cannot  think  you  old — I  think,  indeed, 
You  are  by  twenty  centuries  unborn. 

1886. 


THE  PASSING  OF  "BOSS"  SHEPHERD.       175 


THE    PASSING   OF   "BOSS"    SHEPHERD. 

The  sullen  church-bell's  intermittent  moan, 
The  dirge's  melancholy  monotone, 
The  measured  march,  the  drooping  flags,  attest 
A  great  man's  progress  to  his  place  of  rest. 
Along  broad  avenues  himself  decreed 
To  serve  his  fellow  men's  disputed  need — 
Past  parks  he  raped  away  from  robbers'  thrift 
And  gave  to  poverty,  wherein  to  lift 
Its  voice  to  curse  the  giver  and  the  gift — 
Past  noble  structures  that  he  reared  for  men 
To  meet  in  and  revile  him,  tongue  and  pen, 
Draws  the  long  retinue  of  death  to  show 
The  fit  credentials  of  a  proper  woe. 

"Boss"  Shepherd,  you  are  dead.     Your  hand  no 

more 

Throws  largess  to  the  mobs  that  ramp  and  roar 
For  blood  of  benefactors  who  disdain 
Their  purity  of  purpose  to  explain, 
Their  righteous  motive  and  their  scorn  of  gain. 
Your  period  of  dream — 't  was  but  a  breath — 
Is  closed  in  the  indifference  of  death. 
Sealed  in  your  silences,  to  you  alike 


176        THE  PASSING  OF  "BOSS"  SHEPHERD. 

If  hands  are  lifted  to  applaud  or  strike. 

No  more  to  your  dull,  inattentive  ear 

Praise  of  to-day  than  curse  of  yesteryear. 

From  the  same  lips  the  honied  phrases  fall 

That  still  are  bitter  from  cascades  of  gall. 

We  note  the  shame;  you  in  your  depth  of  dark 

The  red-writ  testimony  cannot  mark 

On  every  honest  cheek;  your  senses  all 

Locked,  incommunicado,  in  your  pall, 

Know  not  who  sit  and  blush,  who  stand  and  bawl. 

"  Seven  Grecian  cities  claim  great  Homer  dead, 
Through  which  the  living  Homer  begged  his 

bread." 

So  sang,  as  if  the  thought  had  been  his  own, 
An  unknown  bard,  improving  on  a  known. 
" Neglected  genius  !" — that  is  sad  indeed, 
But  malice  better  would  ignore  than  heed,, 
And  Shepherd's  soul,  we  rightly  may  suspect, 
Prayed  often  for  the  mercy  of  neglect 
When  hardly  did  he  dare  to  leave  his  door 
Without  a  guard  behind  him  and  before 
To  save  him  from  the  gentlemen  that  now 
In  cheap  and  easy  reparation  bow 
Their  corrigible  heads  above  his  corse 
To  counterfeit  a  grief  that 's  half  remorse. 


THE  PASSING  OF  "BOSS"  SHEPHERD.       177 

The  pageant  passes  and  the  exile  sleeps, 
And  well  his  tongue  the  solemn  secret  keeps 
Of  the  great  peace  he  found  afar,  until, 
Death's  writ  of  extradition  to  fulfill, 
They  brought  him,  helpless,  from  that  friendly 

zone 

To  be  a  show  and  pastime  in  his  own — 
A  final  opportunity  to  those 
Who  fling  with  equal  aim  the  stone  and  rose ; 
That  at  the  living  till  his  soul  is  freed, 
This  at  the  body  to  conceal  the  deed ! 

Lone  on  his  hill  he  's  lying  to  await 

What  added  honors  may  befit  his  state — 

The  monument,  the  statue,  or  the  arch 

(Where  knaves  may  come  to  weep  and  dupes  to 

march) 

Builded  by  clowns  to  brutalize  the  scenes 
His  genius  beautified.  To  get  the  means, 
His  newly  good  traducers  all  are  dunned 
For  contributions  to  the  conscience  fund. 
If  each  subscribe  (and  pay)  one  cent 't  will  rear 
A  structure  taller  than  their  tallest  ear. 

Washington,  May  4,  1903. 


178  TO  MAUDE. 


TO  MAUDE. 

Not  as  two  errant  spheres  together  grind 
With  monstrous  ruin  in  the  vast  of  space, 
Destruction  born  of  that  malign  embrace, 

Their  hapless  peoples  all  to  death  consigned — 

Not  so  when  our  intangible  worlds  of  mind, 
Even  mine  and  yours,  each  with  its  spirit  race 
Of  beings  shadowy  in  form  and  face, 

Shall  drift  together  on  some  blessed  wind. 

No,  in  that  marriage  of  gloom  and  light 
All  miracles  of  beauty  shall  be  wrought, 
Attesting  a  diviner  faith  than  man's ; 

For  all  my  sad-eyed  daughters  of  the  night 

Shall  smile  on  your  sweet  seraphim  of  thought, 
Nor  any  jealous  god  forbid  the  banns. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  VIRTUE.  179 


THE  BIRTH  OF  VIRTUE. 

When,  long  ago,  the  young  world  circling  flew 
Through  wider  reaches  of  a  richer  blue, 
New-eyed,  the  men  and  maids  saw,  manifest, 
The  thoughts  untold  in  one  another's  breast: 
Each  wish  displayed,  and  every  passion  learned — 
A  look  revealed  them  as  a  look  discerned. 
But  sating  Time  with  clouds  o'ercast  their  eyes ; 
Desire  was  hidden,  and  the  lips  framed  lies. 
A  goddess  then,  emerging  from  the  dust, 
Fair  Virtue  rose,  the  daughter  of  Distrust. 


i8o  ST  ON  EM  AN  IN  HEAVEN. 


STONEMAN    IN    HEAVEN. 

The  Seraphs  came  to  Christ,  and  said :    "Behold 
The  man,  presumptuous  and  overbold, 
Who  boasted  that  his  mercy  could  excel 
Thine  own,  is  dead  and  on  his  way  to  Hell." 

Gravely  the  Saviour  asked :    "What  did  he  do 
To  make  his  impious  assertion  true?" 

"He  was  a  Governor,  releasing  all 

The  vilest  felons  ever  held  in  thrall. 

No  other  mortal,  since  the  dawn  of  time, 

Has  ever  pardoned  such  a  mass  of  crime !" 

Christ  smiled  benignly  on  the  Seraphim : 
"Yet  I  am  victor,  for  I  pardon  him." 


THE  SCURRIL  PRESS.  181 


THE  SCURRIL  PRESS. 

TOM  JONESMITH  (loquitur)  :  I've  slept  right  through 
The  night — a  rather  clever  thing  to  do. 
How  soundly  women  sleep  (looks  at  his  wife.) 
They  're  all  alike.     The  sweetest  thing  in  life 
Is  woman  when  she  lies  with  folded  tongue, 
Its  toil  completed  and  its  day-song  sung. 
( Thump )    That 's  the  morning  paper.    What  a  bore 
That  it  should  be  delivered  at  the  door. 
There  ought  to  be  some  expeditious  way 
To  get  it  to  one.    By  this  long  delay 
The  fizz  gets  off  the  news  (a  rap  is  heard). 
That's  Jane,  the  housemaid;  she's  an  early  bird; 
She's  brought  it  to  the  bedroom  door,  good  soul. 
(Gets  up  and  takes  it  in.)     Upon  the  whole 
The  system  's  not  so  bad  a  one.    What 's  here  ? 
Gad,  if  they  've  not  got  after — listen  dear 
(To  sleeping  wife) — young  Gastrotheos!   Well, 
If  Freedom  shrieked  when  Kosciusko  fell 
She  '11  shriek  again — with  laughter — seeing  how 
They  treated  Gast.  with  her.    Yet  Til  allow 
'T  is  right  if  he  goes  dining  at  The  Pup 
With  Mrs.  Thing. 

WIFE  (briskly ,  ivaking  up)  : 


182  THE  SCURRIL  PRESS. 

With  her  ?    The  hussy !    Yes,  it  serves  him  right. 

JONESMITH  (continuing  to  ''seek  the  light'3)  : 
What 's  this  about  old  Impycu  ?  That 's  good ! 
Grip — that 's  the  funny  man — says  Impy  should 
Be  used  as  a  decoy  in  shooting  tramps. 
I  knew  old  Impy  when  he  had  the  "stamps" 
To  buy  us  all  out,  and  he  was  n't  then 
So  bad  a  chap  to  have  about.    Grip's  pen 
Is  just  a  tickler ! — and  the  world,  no  doubt, 
Is  better  with  it  than  it  was  without. 
What?   thirteen  ladies — Jumping  Jove!   we  know 
Them  nearly  all! — who  gamble  at  a  low 
And  very  shocking  game  of  cards  called  "draw" ! 
O  cracky,  how  they  '11  squirm !  ha-ha !  haw-haw ! 
Let 's  see  what  else  (wife  snores).    Well,  I  '11  be  blest ! 
A  woman  does  n't  understand  a  jest. 
Hello !  What,  what  ?  the  scurvy  wretch  proceeds 
To  take  a  fling  at  me,  condemn  him !    (reads)  : 
Tom  Jonesmith — my  name  's  Thomas,  vulgar  cad ! — 
Of  the  new  Shavings  Bank — the  man  's  gone  mad ! 
That 's  libelous ;  I'll  have  him  up  for  that — 
Has  had  his  corns  cut.    Devil  take  the  rat ! 
What  business  is  't  of  his,  I  'd  like  to  know  ? 
He  didn't  have  to  cut  them.    Gods !  what  low 
And  scurril  things  our  papers  have  become! 
You  skim  their  contents  and  you  get  but  scum. 


THE  SCURRIL  PRESS.  183 

Here,  Mary,  (waking  wife)  I  've  been  attacked 
In  this  vile  sheet.    By  Jove,  it  is  a  fact ! 

WIFE  (reading  it)  :    How  wicked!  Who  do  you 
Suppose  't  was  wrote  it  ? 

JONESMITH  :  Who?  why,  who 
But  Grip,  the  so-called  funny  man — he  wrote 
•  Me  up  because  I  'd  not  discount  his  note. 
(Blushes  like  sunset  at  the  hideous  lie — 
He  'II  think  of  one  that  }s  better  by  and  by — 
Throws  down  the  paper  on  the  floor,  and  treads 
A  lively  measure  on  it — kicks  the  shreds 
And  patches  all  abcmt  the  room,  and  still 
Performs  his  jig  with  unabated  will.) 

WIFE  (warbling  sweetly,  like  an  Elfland  horn)  : 
Dear,  do  be  careful  of  that  second  corn. 


184  STANLEY. 


STANLEY. 

Noting  some  great  man's  composition  vile: 
A  head  of  wisdom  and  a  heart  of  guile, 
A  will  to  conquer  and  a  soul  to  dare, 
Joined  to  the  manners  of  a  dancing  bear, 
Fools  unaccustomed  to  the  wide  survey 
Of  various  Nature's  compensating  sway, 
Untaught  to  separate  the  wheat  and  chaff, 
To  praise  the  one  and  at  the  other  laugh, 
Yearn  all  in  vain  and  impotently  seek 
Some  flawless  hero  upon  whom  to  wreak 
The  sycophantic  worship  of  the  weak. 
Not  so  the  wise,  from  superstition  free, 
Who  find  small  pleasure  in  the  bended  knee ; 
Quick  to  discriminate  'twixt  good  and  bad, 
And  willing  in  the  king  to  find  the  cad — 
No  reason  seen  why  genius  and  conceit, 
The  power  to  dazzle  and  the  will  to  cheat, 
The  love  of  daring  and  the  love  of  gin, 
Should  not  dwell,  peaceful,  in  a  single  skin. 
To  such,  great  Stanley,  you  're  a  hero  still, 
Despite  your  cradling  in  a  tub  for  swill. 
Your  peasant  manners  can't  efface  the  mark 
Of  light  you  drew  across  the  Land  of  Dark. 


STANLEY.  185 

In  you  the  extremes  of  character  are  wed, 
To  serve  the  quick  and  villify  the  dead. 
Hero  and  clown !   O,  man  of  many  sides, 
The  Muse  of  Truth  adores  you  and  derides, 
And  sheds,  impartial,  the  revealing  ray 
Upon  your  head  of  gold  and  feet  of  clay. 


i86  ONE  OF  THE  UNFAIR  SEX. 


ONE    OF    THE   UNFAIR    SEX. 

She  stood  at  the  ticket-seller's 

Serenely  removing  her  glove, 
While  hundreds  of  strugglers  and  yellers, 
And  some  that  were  good  at  a  shove, 
Were  clustered  behind  her  like  bats  in 
a  cave  and  unwilling  to  speak  their 
love. 

At  night  she  still  stood  at  that  window 
Endeavoring  her  money  to  reach ; 

The  crowds  right  and  left,  how  they  sinned — O, 
How  dreadfully  sinned  in  their  speech ! 
Ten  miles   either  way  they  extended 
their  lines,  the  historians  teach. 

She  stands  there  to-day — legislation 
Has  failed  to  remove  her.    The  trains 

No  longer  pull  up  at  that  station ; 
And  over  the  ghastly  remains 
Of  the  army  that  waited  and  died  of 
old  age  fall  the  snows  and  the  rains. 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER  ON  A  COIN.  187 


THE   LORD'S    PRAYER    ON    A    COIN. 

Upon  this  quarter-eagle's  leveled  face, 

The  Lord's  Prayer,  legibly  inscribed,  I  trace. 

"  Our  Father  which  " — the  pronoun  there  is  funny, 

And  shows  the  scribe  to  have  addressed  the  money- 

"  Which  art  in  Heaven  " — an  error  this,  no  doubt : 

The  preposition  should  be  stricken  out. 

Needless  to  quote ;  I  only  have  designed 

To  praise  the  frankness  of  the  pious  mind 

Which  thought  it  natural  and  right  to  join, 

With  rare  significancy,  prayer  and  coin. 


i88  A  LACKING  FACTOR. 


A    LACKING    FACTOR. 

"  You  acted  unwisely/'  I  cried,  "  as  you  see 
By  the  outcome/'    He  calmly  eyed  me: 

"  When  choosing  the  course  of  my  action,"  said  he, 
"  I  had  not  the  outcome  to  guide  me." 


THE  ROYAL  JESTER.  189 


THE   ROYAL   JESTER. 

Once  on  a  time,  so  ancient  poets  sing, 

There  reigned  in  Godknowswhere  a  certain  king. 

So  great  a  monarch  ne'er  before  was  seen : 

He  was  a  hero,  even  to  his  queen, 

In  whose  respect  he  held  so  high  a  place 

That  none  was  higher, — nay,  not  even  the  ace. 

He  was  so  just  his  Parliament  declared 

Those  subjects  happy  whom  his  laws  had  spared; 

So  wise  that  none  of  the  debating  throng 

Had  ever  lived  to  prove  him  in  the  wrong ; 

So  good  that  Crime  his  anger  never  feared, 

And  Beauty  boldly  plucked  him  by  the  beard ; 

So  brave  that  if  his  army  got  a  beating 

None  dared  to  face  him  when  he  was  retreating. 

This  monarch  kept  a  Fool  to  make  his  mirth, 

And  loved  him  tenderly  despite  his  worth. 

Prompted  by  what  caprice  I  cannot  say, 

He  called  the  Fool  before  the  throne  one  day 

And  to  that  jester  seriously  said : 

"  Til  abdicate,  and  you  shall  reign  instead, 

While  I,  attired  in  motley,  will  make  sport 

To  entertain  your  Majesty  and  Court." 


igo  THE  ROYAL  JESTER. 

'T  was  done  and  the  Fool  governed.    He  decreed 

The  time  of  harvest  and  the  time  of  seed ; 

Ordered  the  rains  and  made  the  weather  clear, 

And  had  a  famine  every  second  year; 

Altered  the  calendar  to  suit  his  freak, 

Ordaining  six  whole  holidays  a  week; 

Religious  creeds  and  sacred  books  prepared ; 

Made  war  when  angry  and  made  peace  when  scared. 

New  taxes  he  inspired ;  new  laws  he  made ; 

Drowned  those  who  broke  them,  who  observed  them, 

flayed, 

In  short,  he  ruled  so  well  that  all  who  'd  not 
Been  starved,  decapitated,  hanged  or  shot 
Made  the  whole  country  with  his  praises  ring, 
Declaring  he  was  every  inch  a  king ; 
And  the  High  Priest  averred  't  was  very  odd 
If  one  so  competent  were  not  a  god. 

Meantime,  his  master,  now  in  motley  clad, 
Wore  such  a  visage,  woeful,  wan  and  sad, 
That  some  condoled  with  him  as  with  a  brother 
Who,  having  lost  a  wife,  had  got  another. 
Others,  mistaking  his  profession,  often 
Approached  him  to  be  measured  for  a  coffin. 
For  years  this  highborn  jester  never  broke 
The  silence — he  was  pondering  a  joke. 
At  last,  one  day,  in  cap-and-bells  arrayed, 
He  strode  into  the  Council  and  displayed 


THE  ROYAL  JESTER.  ig 

A  long,  bright  smile,  that  glittered  in  the  gloom 

Like  a  gilt  epithet  within  a  tomb. 

Posing  his  bauble  like  a  leader's  staff, 

To  give  the  signal  when  (and  why)  to  laugh, 

He  brought  it  down  with  peremptory  stroke 

And  simultaneously  cracked  his  joke ! 

I  can't  repeat  it,  friends.    I  ne'er  could  school 
Myself  to  quote  from  any  other  fool : 
A  jest,  if  it  were  worse  than  mine,  would  start 
My  tears ;  if  better,  it  would  break  my  heart. 
So,  if  you  please,  I  '11  hold  you  but  to  state 
That  royal  Jester's  melancholy  fate. 

The  insulted  nation,  so  the  story  goes, 

Rose  as  one  man — the  very  dead  arose, 

Springing  indignant  from  the  riven  tomb, 

And  babes  unborn  leapt  swearing  from  the  womb ! 

All  to  the  Council  Chamber  clamoring  went, 

By  rage  distracted  and  on  vengeance  bent. 

In  that  vast  hall,  in  due  disorder  laid, 

The  tools  of  legislation  were  displayed, 

And  the  wild  populace,  its  wrath  to  sate, 

Seized  them  and  heaved  them  at  the  Jester's  pate. 

Mountains  of  writing  paper ;  pools  and  seas 

Of  ink,  awaiting,  to  become  decrees, 

Royal  approval — and  the  same  in  stacks 

Lay  ready  for  attachment,  backed  with  wax ; 


i92  THE  ROYAL  JESTER. 

Pens  to  make  laws,  erasers  to  amend  them ; 
With  mucilage  convenient  to  extend  them ; 
Scissors  for  limiting  their  application, 
And  acids  to  repeal  all  legislation — 
These,  flung  as  missiles  till  the  air  was  dense, 
Were  most  offensive  weapons  of  offense, 
And  by  their  aid  the  Fool  was  nigh  destroyed. 
They  ne'er  had  been  so  harmlessly  employed. 
Whelmed  underneath  a  load  of  legal  cap, 
His  mouth  egurgitating  ink  on  tap, 
His  eyelids  mucilaginously  sealed, 
His  fertile  head  by  scissors  made  to  yield 
Abundant  harvestage  of  ears,  his  pelt, 
In  every  wrinkle  and  on  every  welt, 
Quickset  with  pencil-points  from  feet  to  gills 
And  thickly  studded  with  a  pride  of  quills, 
The  royal  Jester  in  the  dreadful  strife 
Was  made  (in  short)  an  editor  for  life! 

An  idle  tale,  and  yet  a  moral  lurks 
In  this  as  plainly  as  in  greater  works. 
I  shall  not  give  it  birth :  one  moral  here 
Would  die  of  loneliness  within  a  year. 


A  CAREER  IN  LETTERS.  193 


A    CAREER    IN    LETTERS. 

When  Liberverm  resigned  the  chair 
Of  This  or  That  in  college,  where 
For  two  decades  he  'd  gorged  his  brain 
With  more  than  it  could  well  contain, 
In  order  to  relieve  the  stress 
He  took  to  writing  for  the  press. 
Then  Pondronummus  said,  "  I'll  help 
This  mine  of  talent  to  devel'p ;" 
And  straightway  bought  with  coin  and 

credit 
The  Thunder  gust  for  him  to  edit. 

The  great  man  seized  the  pen  and  ink 
And  wrote  so  hard  he  could  n't  think ; 
Ideas  grew  beneath  his  fist 
And  flew  like  falcons  from  his  wrist. 
His  pen  shot  sparks  all  kinds  of  ways 
Till  all  the  rivers  were  ablaze, 
And  where  the  coruscations  fell 
Men  uttered  words  I  dare  not  spell. 

Eftsoons  with  corrugated  brow, 
Wet  towels  bound  about  his  pow, 


194  A  CAREER  IN  LETTERS. 

Locked  legs  and  failing  appetite, 
He  thought  so  hard  he  could  n't  write. 
His  soaring  fancies,  chickenwise, 
Came  home  to  roost  and  would  n't  rise. 
With  dimmer  light  and  milder  heat 
His  goose-quill  staggered  o'er  the  sheet, 
Then  dragged,  then  stopped;  the  finish 

came — 

He  could  n't  even  write  his  name. 
The  Thunder  gust  in  three  short  weeks 
Had  risen,  roared,  and  split  its  cheeks. 
Said  Pondronummus,  "  How  unjust ! 
The  storm  I  raised  has  laid  my  dust !  " 

When,  Moneybagger,  you  have  aught 
Invested  in  a  vein  of  thought, 
Be  sure  you've  purchased  not,  instead. 
That  salted  claim,  a  bookworm's  head, 


THE  FOLLOWING  PAIR.  195 


THE    FOLLOWING    PAIR. 

O  very  remarkable  mortal, 

What  food  is  engaging  your  jaws 
And  staining  with  amber  their  portal  ? 
"  It's  'baccy  I  chaws." 

And  why  do  you  sway  in  your  walking, 

To  right  and  left  many  degrees, 
And  hitch  up  your  trousers  when  talking? 
"  I  toilers  the  seas." 

Great  indolent  shark  in  the  rollers, 

Is  "  'baccy,"  too,  one  of  your  faults  ? — 
You,  too,  display  maculate  molars. 
"  I  dines  upon  salts." 

Strange  diet ! — intestinal  pain  it 

Is  commonly  given  to  nip. 
And  how  can  you  ever  obtain  it  ? 
"  I  toilers  the  ship." 


196  POLITICAL  ECONOMY. 


POLITICAL   ECONOMY. 

"  I  beg  you  to  note/7  said  a  Man  to  a  Goose, 

As  he  plucked  from  her  bosom  the  plumage  all  loose, 

"  That  pillows  and  cushions  of  feathers  and  beds 

As  warm  as  maids'  hearts  and  as  soft  as  their  heads, 

Increase  of  life's  comforts  the  general  sum — 

Which  raises  the  standard  of  living."    "Come,  come," 

The  Goose  said,  impatiently,  "  tell  me  or  cease, 

How  that  is  of  any  advantage  to  geese." 

"  What,  what !  "  said  the  man — "  you  are  very  obtuse ! 

Consumption  no  profit  to  those  who  produce? 

No  good  to  accrue  to  Supply  from  a  grand 

Progressive  expansion,  all  round,  of  Demand? 

Luxurious  habits  no  benefit  bring 

To  those  who  purvey  the  luxurious  thing? 

Consider,  I  pray  you,  my  friend,  how  the  growth 

Of  luxury  promises — "    "  Promises,"  quoth 

The  sufferer,  "  what  ? — to  what  course  is  it  pledged 

To  pay  me  for  being  so  often  defledged  ?  " 

"  Accustomed  " — this  notion  the  plucker  expressed 

As  he  ripped  out  a  handful  of  down  from  her  breast — 

"  To  one  kind  of  luxury,  people  soon  yearn 

For  others  and  ever  for  others  in  turn ; 

And  the  man  who  to-night  on  your  feathers  will  rest, 

His  mutton  or  bacon  or  beef  to  digest, 

His  hunger  to-morrow  will  wish  to  assuage 

By  dining  on  goose  with  a  dressing  of  sage." 


VANISHED  AT  COCK-CROW.  197 


VANISHED   AT    COCK-CROW. 

"  I  Jve  found  the  secret  of  your  charm,"  I  said, 
Expounding  with  complacency  my  guess. 

Alas !  the  charm,  even  as  I  named  it,  fled, 
For  all  its  secret  was  unconsciousness. 


198  THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN. 


THE    UNPARDONABLE    SIN. 

I  reckon  that  ye  never  knew, 

That  dandy  slugger,  Tom  Carew, 

He  had  a  touch  as  light  an'  free 

As  that  of  any  honey-bee ; 

But  where  it  lit  there  was  n't  much 

To  jestify  another  touch. 

O,  what  a  Sunday-school  it  was 

To  watch  him  puttin'  up  his  paws 

An'  roommate  upon  their  heft — 

Particular  his  holy  left ! 

Tom  was  my  style — that 's  all  I  say ; 

Some  others  may  be  equal  gay. 

What 's  come  of  him  ?  Dunno,  I  'm 

sure — 
He  's  dead — which  make  his  fate 

obscure. 

I  only  started  in  to  clear 
One  vital  p'int  in  his  career, 
Which  is  to  say — afore  he  died 
He  soiled  his  erming  mighty  snide. 
Ye  see  he  took  to  politics 
And   learnt   them   statesmen-fellers' 

tricks ; 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN.  199 

Pulled  wires,  wore  stovepipe  hats, 

used  scent, 

Just  like  he  was  the  President ; 
Went  to  the  Legislater;  spoke 
Right  out  agin  the  British  yoke — 
But  that  was  right.    He  let  his  hair 
Grow  long  to  qualify  for  Mayor, 
An'  once  or  twice  he  poked  his  snoot 
In  Congress  like  a  low  galoot ! 
It  had  to  come — no  gent  can  hope 
To  wrastle  God  agin  the  rope. 
Tom  went  from  bad  to  wuss.    Being 

dead, 

I  s'pose  it  ought  n't  to  be  said, 
For  sech  inikities  as  flow 
From  politics  ain't  fit  to  know ; 
But,  if  you  think  it 's  actin'  white 
To  tell  it — Thomas  throwed  a  fight ! 


200  INDUSTRIAL  DISCONTENT. 


INDUSTRIAL   DISCONTENT. 

As  time  rolled  on  the  whole  world  came  to  be 

A  desolation  and  a  darksome  curse ; 
And  some  one  said :  ki  The  changes  that  you  see 

In  the  fair  frame  of  things,  from  bad  to  worse, 
Are  wrought  by  strikes.    The  sun  withdrew  his  glim- 
mer 
Because  the  moon  assisted  with  her  shimmer. 

"  Then,  when  poor  Luna,  straining  very  hard, 
Doubled  her  light  to  serve  a  darkling  world, 

He  called  her  '  scab,'  and  meanly  would  retard 
Her  rising :  and  at  last  the  villain  hurled 

A  heavy  beam  which  knocked  her  o'er  the  Lion 

Into  the  nebula  of  great  O'Ryan. 

"  The  planets  all  had  struck  some  time  before, 

Demanding  what  they  said  were  equal  rights : 

Some  pointing  out  that  others  had  far  more 
That  a  fair  dividend  of  satellites. 

So  all  went  out — though  those  the  best  provided, 

If  they  had  dared,  would  rather  have  abided. 


INDUSTRIAL  DISCONTENT.  201 

"  The  stars  struck  too — I  think  it  was  because 
The  comets  had  more  liberty  than  they, 

And  were  not  bound  by  any  hampering  laws, 

While  they  were  fixed;  and  there  are  those  who 
say 

The  comets'  tresses  nettled  poor  Altair, 

An  aged  orb  that  has  n't  any  hair. 

"  The  earth  's  the  only  one  that  is  n't  in 

The  movement — I  suppose  because  she  's  watched 
With  horror  and  disgust  how  her  fair  skin 

Her  pranking  parasites  have  fouled  and  blotched 
With  blood  and  grease  in  every  labor  riot, 
When  seeing  any  purse  or  throat  to  fly  at." 


202  TEMPORA  MUTANTUR. 


TEMPORA    MUTANTUR. 

"  The  world  is  dull,"  I  cried  in  my  despair : 
"  Its  myths  and  fables  are  no  longer  fair. 

"  Roll  back  thy  centuries,  O  Father  Time : 
To  Greece  transport  me  in  her  golden  prime. 

"  Give  back  the  beautiful  old  Gods  again — 
The  sportive  Nymphs,  the  Dryad's  jocund 
train, 

"  Pan  piping  on  his  reeds,  the  Naiades, 
The  Sirens  singing  by  the  sleepy  seas. 

"  Nay,  show  me  but  a  Gorgon  and  I'll  dare 
To  lift  mine  eyes  to  her  peculiar  hair 

"(The  fatal  horrors  of  her  snaky  pate, 
That  stiffen  men  into  a  stony  state) 

"  And  die — erecting,  as  my  soul  goes  hence, 
A  statue  of  myself,  without  expense." 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR.  203 

Straight  as  I  spoke  I  heard  the  voice  of  Fate : 
"  Look  up,  my  lad,  the  Gorgon  sisters  wait." 

Raising  my  eyes,  I  saw  Medusa  stand, 
Stheno,  Euryale,  on  either  hand. 

I  gazed  unpetrified  and  unappalled — 
The  girls  had  aged  and  were  entirely  bald ! 


204  CONTENTMENT. 


CONTENTMENT. 

Sleep  fell  upon  my  senses  and  I  dreamed 

Long  years  had  circled  since  my  life  had  fled. 

The  world  was  different,  and  all  things  seemed 
Remote  and  strange,  like  noises  to  the  dead. 
And  one  great  Voice  there  was ;  and  something  said 

"  Posterity  is  speaking — rightly  deemed 

Infallible :"  and  so  I  gave  attention, 

Hoping  Posterity  my  name  would  mention. 

"  Illustrious  Spirit,"  said  the  Voice,  "  appear! 
While  we  confirm  eternally  thy  fame, 

Before  our  dread  tribunal  answer,  here, 
Why  do  no  statues  celebrate  thy  name, 
No  monuments  thy  services  proclaim  ? 

Why  did  not  thy  contemporaries  rear 

To  thee  some  schoolhouse  or  memorial  college  ? 

It  looks  almighty  queer,  you  must  acknowledge." 

Up  spake  I  hotly :   "  That  is  where  you  err !  " 
But  some  one  thundered  in  my  ear :  "  You  shan't 

Be  interrupting  these  proceedings,  sir; 

The  question  was  addressed  to  General  Grant." 


CONTENTMENT.  205 

Some  other  things  were  spoken  which  I  can't 
Distinctly  now  recall,  but  I  infer, 
By  certain  flushings  of  my  cheeks  and  forehead, 
Posterity's  environment  is  torrid. 

Then  heard  I  (this  was  in  a  dream,  remark) 
Another  Voice,  clear,  comfortable,  strong, 
As  Grant's  great  shade,  replying  from  the  dark, 
Said  in  a  tone  that  rang  the  earth  along, 
And  thrilled  the  senses  of  the  Judges'  throng : 
"  I  'd  rather  you  would  question  why,  in  park 
And  street,  my  monuments  were  not  erected 
Than  why  they  were."    Then,  waking,  I  reflected. 


206  THE  NEW  ENOCH. 


THE    NEW    ENOCH. 

Enoch  Arden  was  an  able 

Seaman ;  hear  of  his  mishap — 

Not  in  wild  mendacious  fable, 
As  't  was  told  by  t'  other  chap ; 

For  I  hold  it  is  a  youthful 

Indiscretion  to  tell  lies, 
And  the  writer  that  is  truthful 

Has  the  reader  that  is  wise. 

Enoch  Arden,  able  seaman, 

On  an  isle  was  cast  away, 
And  before  he  was  a  freeman 

Time  had  touched  him  up  with  gray. 

Long  he  searched  the  fair  horizon, 
Seated  on  a  mountain  top ; 

Vessel  ne'er  he  set  his  eyes  on 
That  would  undertake  to  stop. 

Seeing  that  his  sight  was  growing 
Dim  and  dimmer,  day  by  day, 

Enoch  said  he  must  be  going. 
So  he  rose  and  went  away— 


THE  NEW  ENOCH.  207 

Went  away  and  so  continued 

Till  he  lost  his  lonely  isle : 
Mr.  Arden  was  so  sinewed 

He  could  row  for  many  a  mile. 

Compass  he  had  not,  nor  sextant, 

To  direct  him  o'er  the  sea : 
Ere  't  was  known  that  he  was  extant, 

At  his  widow's  home  was  he. 

When  he  saw  the  hills  and  hollows 
And  the  streets  he  could  but  know, 

He  gave  utterance  as  follows 
To  the  sentiments  below : 

"  Blast  my  tarry  toplights !    (shiver, 

Too,  my  timbers ! )  but,  I  say, 
W'at  a  larruk  to  diskiver, 

I  have  lost  me  blessid  way ! 

"  W'at,  alas,  would  be  my  bloomin' 

Fate  if  Philip  now  I  see, 
Which  I  lammed? — or  my  old  'oman, 

Which  has  frequent  basted  me?" 

Scenes  of  childhood  swam  around  him 

At  the  thought  of  such  a  lot : 
In  a  swoon  his  Annie  found  him 

And  conveyed  him  to  her  cot. 


208  THE  NEW  ENOCH. 

T  was  the  very  house,  the  garden, 
Where  their  honeymoon  was  passed : 

'T  was  the  place  where  Mrs.  Arden 
Would  have  mourned  him  to  the  last. 

Ah,  what  grief  she  'd  known  without  him ! 

Now  what  tears  of  joy  she  shed ! 
Enoch  Arden  looked  about  him: 

"  Shanghaied !  " — that  was  all  he  said. 


DISAVOWAL.  209 


DISAVOWAL. 

Two  bodies  are  lying  in  Phoenix  Park, 
Grim  and  bloody  and  stiff  and  stark, 
And  a  Land  League  man  with  averted 

eye 

Crosses  himself  as  he  hurries  by. 
And  he  says  to  his  conscience  under  his 

breath : 
"  I  have  had  no  hand  in  this  deed  of 

death ! " 

A  Fenian,  making  a  circuit  wide 
And  passing  them  by  on  the  other  side, 
Shudders  and  crosses  himself  and  cries : 
"  Who  says  that  I  did  it,  he  lies,  he  lies !  " 

Gingerly  stepping  across  the  gore, 
Pat  Satan  comes  after  the  two  before, 
Makes,  in  a  solemnly  comical  way, 
The  sign  of  the  cross  and  is  heard  to 

say: 

"  O  dear,  what  a  terrible  sight  to  see, 
For  babes  like  them  and  a  saint  like  me !  " 
1882. 


210  AN  AVERAGE. 


AN   AVERAGE. 

I  ne'er  could  be  entirely  fond 
Of  any  maiden  who 's  a  blonde, 
And  no  brunette  that  e'er  I  saw 
Had  charms  my  heart's  whole 
warmth  to  draw. 

Yet  sure  no  girl  was  ever  made 
Just  half  of  light  and  half  of 

shade. 

And  so,  this  happy  mean  to  get, 
I  love  a  blonde  and  a  brunette. 


WOMAN.  2ii 


WOMAN. 

Study  good  women  and  ignore  the  rest, 
For  he  best  knows  the  sex  who  knows  the  best. 


212  INCURABLE. 


INCURABLE. 

From  pride,  joy,  hate,  greed,  melan- 
choly— 

From  any  kind  of  vice,  or  folly, 
Bias,  propensity  or  passion 
That  is  in  prevalence  and  fashion, 
Save  one,  the  sufferer  or  lover 
May,  by  the  grace  of  God,  recover : 
Alone  that  spiritual  tetter, 
The  zeal  to  make  creation  better, 
Glows  still  immedicably  warmer. 
Who  knows  of  a  reformed  reformer  ? 


THE  PUN.  213 


THE    PUN. 

Hail,  peerless  Pun!   thou  last  and  best, 
Most  rare  and  excellent  bequest 
Of  dying  idiot  to  the  wit 
He  died  of,  rat-like,  in  a  pit ! 

Thyself  disguised,  in  many  a  way 
Thou  let'st  thy  sudden  splendor  play, 
Adorning  all  where'er  it  turns, 
As  the  revealing  bull's-eye  burns, 
Of  the  dim  thief,  and  plays  its  trick 
Upon  the  lock  he  means  to  pick. 

Yet  sometimes,  too.,  thou  dost  appear 

As  boldly  as  a  brigadier 

Tricked  out  with  marks  and  signs,  all 

o'er, 

Of  rank,  brigade,  division,  corps, 
To  show  by  every  means  he  can 
An  officer  is  not  a  man ; 
Or  naked,  with  a  lordly  swagger, 
Proud  as  a  cur  without  a  wagger, 
Who  says :  "  See  simple  worth  prevail — 
All  dog,  sir — not  a  bit  of  tail !  " 


214  THE  PUN. 

'T  is  then  men  give  thee  loudest  welcome, 
As  if  thou  wert  a  soul  from  Hell  come. 

O  obvious  Pun !   thou  hast  the  grace 
Of  skeleton  clock  without  a  case — 
With  all  its  boweling  displayed, 
And  all  its  organs  on  parade. 

Dear   Pun,  you  're  common  ground  of 

bliss, 

Where  Punch  and  I  can  meet  and  kiss ; 
Than  thee  my  wit  can  stoop  no  low'r — 
No  higher  his  does  ever  soar. 


A  PARTISAN'S  PROTEST.  215 


A    PARTISAN'S    PROTEST. 

O  statesmen,  what  would  you  be  at, 

With  torches,  flags  and  bands? 
You  make  me  first  throw  up  my  hat, 
And  then  my  hands. 


216  TO  NANINE. 


TO    NANINE. 

Dear,  if  I  never  saw  your  face  again ; 
If  all  the  music  of  your  voice  were  mute 
As  that  of  a  forlorn  and  broken  lute ; 
If  only  in  my  dreams  I  might  attain 
The  benediction  of  your  touch,  how  vain 
Were  Faith  to  justify  the  old  pursuit 
Of  happiness,  or  Reason  to  confute 
The  pessimist  philosophy  of  pain. 
Yet  Love  not  altogether  is  unwise, 

For  still  the  wind  would  murmur  in  the 

corn, 
And  still  the  sun  would  splendor  all 

the  mere; 
And    I — I    could   not,    dearest, 

choose  but  hear 

Your  voice  upon  the  breeze  and  see  your  eyes 
Shine  in  the  glory  of  the  summer  morn. 


VICE   VERSA.  217 


VICE   VERSA. 

Down  in  the  state  of  Maine,  the  story  goes, 
A  woman,  to  secure  a  lapsing  pension, 

Married  a  soldier — though  the  good  Lord  knows 
That  very  common  act  scarce  calls  for  mention. 

What  makes  it  worthy  to  be  writ  and  read — 

The  man  she  married  had  been  nine  hours  dead ! 

Now,  marrying  a  corpse  is  not  an  act 

Familiar  to  our  daily  observation, 
And  so  I  crave  her  pardon  if  the  fact 

Suggests  this  interesting  speculation : 
Should  some  mischance  restore  the  man  to  life 
Would  she  be  then  a  widow,  or  a  wife  ? 

Let  casuists  contest  the  point ;  I  'm  not 

Disposed  to  grapple  with  so  great  a  matter. 

'T  would  tie  my  thinker  in  a  double  knot 
And  drive  me  staring  mad  as  any  hatter — 

Though  I  submit  that  hatters  are,  in  fact, 

Sane,  and  all  other  human  beings  cracked. 

Small  thought  have  I  of  Destiny  or  Chance ; 

Luck  seems  to  me  the  same  thing  as  Intention ; 
In  metaphysics  I  could  ne'er  advance, 

And  think  it  of  the  Devil's  own  invention. 
Enough  of  joy  to  know  though  when  I  wed 
I  must  be  married,  yet  I  may  be  dead. 


218  A  BLACK-LIST. 


A    BLACK-LIST. 

"  Resolved  that  we  will  post,"  the  tradesmen 

say, 

"  All  names  of  debtors  who  do  never  pay." 
"Whose  shall  be  first?"  inquires  the  ready 

scribe — 
"  Who    are    the    chiefs    of    the    marauding 

tribe?" 

Lo!  high  Parnassus,  lifting  from  the  plain, 
Upon  his  hoary  peak,  a  noble  fane ! 
Within  that  temple  all  the  names  are  scrolled 
Of  village  bards  upon  a  slab  of  gold ; 
To  that  bad  eminence,  my  friend,  aspire, 
And  copy  thou  the  Roll  of  Fame,  entire. 
Yet  not  to  total  shame  those  names  devote, 
But  add  in  mercy  this  explaining  note : 
"These  cheat  because  the  law  makes  theft  a 

crime, 
And  they  obey  all  laws  but  laws  of  rhyme." 


A  BEQUEST  TO  MUSIC.  219 


A    BEQUEST    TO    MUSIC. 

"  Let  music  flourish !  "  So  he  said  and  died. 

Hark !  ere  he  's  gone  the  minstrelsy  begins  : 
The  symphonies  ascend,  a  swelling  tide, 
Melodious  thunders  fill  the  welkin  wide — 

The   grand   old   lawyers,    chinning   on   their 
chins ! 


220  AUTHORITY. 


AUTHORITY. 

"  Authority,  authority !  "  they  shout 

Whose  minds,  not  large  enough  to  hold  a  doubt, 

Some  chance  opinion  ever  entertain, 

By  dogma  billeted  upon  their  brain. 

"  Ha !  "  they  exclaim  with  choreatic  glee, 

"  Here  's  Dabster  if  you  won't  give  in  to  me — 

Dabster,  sir,  Dabster,  to  whom  all  men  look 

With  reverence !  "   The  fellow  wrote  a  book. 

It  matters  not  that  many  another  wight 

Has  thought  more  deeply,  could  more  wisely  write 

On  t'  other  side — that  you  yourself  possess 

Knowledge  where  Dabster  did  but  faintly  guess. 

God  help  you  if  ambitious  to  persuade 

The  fools  who  take  opinion  ready-made 

And  "  recognize  authorities."     Be  sure 

No  tittle  of  their  folly  they  '11  abjure 

For  all  that  you  can  say.    But  write  it  down, 

Publish  and  die  and  get  a  great  renown — 

Faith !   how  they  '11  snap  it  up,  misread,  misquote, 

Swear  that  they  had  a  hand  in  all  you  wrote, 

And  ride  your  fame  like  monkeys  on  a  goat ! 


THE  PSORIAD.  221 


THE    PSORIAD. 

The  King  of  Scotland,  years  and  years  ago, 
Convened  his  courtiers  in  a  gallant  row 
And  thus  addressed  them  : 

"  Gentle  sirs,  from  you 
Abundant  counsel  I  have  had,  and  true : 
What  laws  to  make  to  serve  the  public  weal ; 
What  laws  of  Nature's  making  to  repeal ; 
What  old  religion  is  the  only  true  one, 
And  what  the  greater  merit  of  some  new  one ; 
W^hat  friends  of  yours  my  favor  have  forgot ; 
Which  of  your  enemies  against  me  plot. 
In  harvests  ample  to  augment  my  treasures, 
Behold  the  fruits  of  your  sagacious  measures ! 
The  punctual  planets,  to  their  periods  just, 
Attest  your  wisdom  and  approve  my  trust. 
Lo !  the  reward  your  shining  virtues  bring : 
The  grateful  placemen  bless  their  useful  king ! 
But  while  you  quaff  the  nectar  of  my  favor 
I  mean  somewhat  to  modify  its  flavor 
By  just  infusing  a  peculiar  dash 
Of  tonic  bitter  in  the  calabash. 
And  should  you,  too  abstemious,  disdain  it, 
Egad !   I'll  hold  your  noses  till  you  drain  it ! 


222  THE  PSORIAD. 

"  You  know,  you  dogs,  your  master  long  has  felt 

A  keen  distemper  in  the  royal  pelt— 

A  testy,  superficial  irritation, 

Brought  home,  I  fancy,  from  some  foreign 

nation. 

For  this  a  thousand  simples  you  've  pre- 
scribed— 

Unguents  external,  draughts  to  be  imbibed. 
You  've  plundered  Scotland  of  its  plants,  the 

seas 

You  Ve  ravished,  and  despoiled  the  Hebrides, 
To  brew  me  remedies  which,  in  probation, 
Were  sovereign  only  in  their  application. 
In  vain,  and  eke  in  pain,  have  I  applied 
Your  flattering  unctions  to  my  soul  and  hide : 
Physic  and  hope  have  been  my  daily  food — 
I've  swallowed  treacle  by  the  holy  rood ! 

"  Your  wisdom,  which  sufficed  to  guide  the  year 
And  tame  the  seasons  in  their  mad  career, 
When  set  to  higher  purposes  has  failed  me 
And  added  anguish  to  the  ills  that  ailed  me. 
Nor  that  alone,  but  each  ambitious  leech 
His  rivals'  skill  has  labored  to  impeach 
By  hints  equivocal  in  secret  speech. 
For  years,  to  conquer  our  respective  broils, 
We  Ve  plied  each  other  with  pacific  oils. 


THE  PSORIAD.  223 

In  vain :  your  turbulence  is  unallayed, 
My  flame  unquenched;  your  rioting  unstayed; 
My  life  so  wretched  from  your  strife  to  save  it 
That  death  were  welcome  did  I  dare  to  brave  it. 
With    zeal    inspired    by    your    intemperate 

pranks, 

My  subjects  muster  in  contending  ranks. 
Those  fling  their  banners  to  the  startled 

breeze 

To  champion  some  royal  ointment ;  these 
The  standard  of  some  royal  purge  display 
And  'neath  that  ensign  wage  a  wasteful  fray ! 
Brave  tongues  are  thundering  from  sea  to  sea, 
Torrents  of  sweat  roll  reeking  o'er  the  lea ! 
My  people  perish  in  their  martial  fear, 
And  rival  bagpipes  cleave  the  royal  ear! 

"Now,  caitiffs,  tremble,  for  this  very  hour 
Your  injured  sovereign  shall  assert  his  power! 
Behold  this  lotion,  carefully  compound 
Of  all  the  poisons  you  for  me  have  found — 
Of  biting  washes  such  as  tan  the  skin, 
And  drastic  drinks  to  vex  the  parts  within. 
What  aggravates  an  ailment  will  produce — 
I  mean  to  rub  you  with  this  dreadful  juice ! 
Divided  counsels  you  no  more  shall  hatch — 
At  last  you  shall  unanimously  scratch. 


224  THE  PSORIAD. 

Kneel,  villains,  kneel,  and  doff  your  shirts — 

God  bless  us ! 
They  '11  seem,  when  you  resume  them,  robes 

of  Nessus!" 

The  sovereign  ceased,  and,  sealing  what  he 

spoke, 
From    Arthur's    Seat*    confirming    thunders 

broke. 

The  conscious  culprits,  to  their  fate  resigned, 
Sank  to  their  knees,  all  piously  inclined. 
This  act,,  from  high  Ben  Lomond  where  she 

floats, 

The  thrifty  goddess,  Caledonia,  notes. 
Glibly  as  nimble  sixpence,  down  she  tilts 
Headlong,  and  ravishes  away  their  kilts, 
Tears  off  each  plaid  and  all  their  shirts  dis- 
closes, 
Removes   each   shirt  and  their  broad  backs 

exposes. 

The  king  advanced — then  cursing  fled  amain 
Dashing  the  phial  to  the  stony  plain 
(Where  't  straight  became  a  fountain  brimming 

o'er, 

Whence  Father  Tweed  derives  his  liquid  store) 
For  lo!  already  on  each  back  sans  stitch 
The  red  sign  manual  of  the  Rosy  Witch ! 

*  A  famous  height  overlooking  Edinburgh. 


ONE1ROMANCY.  225 


ONEIROMANCY. 

I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  that  I 
Was  flung,  like  Vulcan,  from  the  sky ; 
Like  him  was  lamed — another  part : 
His  leg  was  crippled  and  my  heart. 
I  woke  in  time  to  see  my  love 
Conceal  a  letter  in  her  glove. 


226  PEACE. 


PEACE. 

When  lion  and  lamb  have  together  lain  down 

Spectators  cry  out,  all  in  chorus ; 
"The  lamb  does  n't  shrink  nor  the  lion  frown — 

A  miracle  's  working  before  us !  " 

But  't  is  patent  why  Hot-head  his  wrath  holds  in, 
And  Faint-heart  her  terror  and  loathing ; 

For  the  one  's  but  an  ass  in  a  lion's  skin, 
The  other  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 


THANKSG1 VING.  227 


THANKSGIVING. 

The  Superintendent  of  an  Almshouse.   A  Pauper. 

SUPERINTENDENT  : 

So  you  're  unthankful — you  '11  not  eat  the  bird  ? 
You  sit  about  the  place  all  day  and  gird. 
I  understand  you  '11  not  attend  the  ball 
That 's  to  be  given  to-night  in  Pauper  Hall. 

PAUPER  : 

Why,  that  is  true,  precisely  as  you  've  heard : 
I  have  no  teeth  and  I  will  eat  no  bird. 

SUPERINTENDENT  : 

•Ah !  see  how  good  is  Providence.    Because 
Of  teeth  He  has  denuded  both  your  jaws 
The  fowl 's  made  tender ;  you  can  overcome  it 
By  suction ;  or  at  least — well,  you  can  gum  it, 
Attesting  thus  the  dictum  of  the  preachers 
That  Providence  is  good  to  all  His  creatures — 
Turkeys  excepted.     Come,  ungrateful  friend, 
If  our  Thanksgiving  dinner  you  '11  attend 
You  shall  say  grace — ask  God  to  bless  at  least 
The  soft  and  liquid  portions  of  the  feast. 


228  THANKSGIVING. 

PAUPER.  : 

Without  those  teeth  my  speech  is  rather  thick — 
He  '11  hardly  understand  Gum  Arabic. 
No,  1  '11  not  dine  to-day.    As  to  the  ball, 
'T  is  known  to  you  that  I  've  no  legs  at  all. 
I  had  the  gout — hereditary ;  so, 
As  it  could  not  be  cornered  in  my  toe 
They  cut  my  legs  off  in  the  fond  belief 
That  shortening  me  would  make  my  anguish  brief. 
Lacking  my  legs  I  could  not  prosecute 
With  any  good  advantage  a  pursuit ; 
And  so,  because  my  father  chose  to  court 
Heaven's  favor  with  his  ortolans  and  Port 
(Thanksgiving  every  day!)  the  Lord  supplied 
Saws  for  my  legs,  an  almshouse  for  my  pride 
And,  once  a  year,  a  bird  for  my  inside. 
No,  I  '11  not  dance — my  light  fantastic  toe 
Took  to  its  heels  some  twenty  years  ago. 
Some  small  repairs  would  be  required  for  putting 
My  feelings  on  a  saltatory  footing. 

(Sings) 

O  the  legless  man  's  an  unhappy  chap— 

Tum-hi,  tum-hi,  turn-he  o'haddy. 
The  favors  o'  fortune  fall  not  in  his  lap — 

Tum-hi,  tum-heedle-do  hum. 
The  plums  of  office  avoid  his  plate 


THANKSGIVING.  229 

No  matter  how  much  he  may  stump  the  State — 

Tum-hi,  ho-heeee. 

The  grass  grows  never  beneath  his  feet, 
But  he  cannot  hope  to  make  both  ends  meet — 

Tum-hi. 

With  a  gleeless  eye  and  a  somber  heart, 
He  plays  the  role  of  his  mortal  part : 
Wholly  himself  he  can  never  be. 
O,  a  soleless  corporation  is  he ! 
Turn. 

SUPERINTENDENT  : 

The  chapel  bell  is  calling,  thankless  friend, 
Balls  you  may  not,  but  church  you  shall,  attend. 
Some  recognition  cannot  be  denied 
To  the  great  mercy  that  has  turned  aside 
The  sword  of  death  from  us  and  let  it  fall 
Upon  the  people's  necks  in  Montreal ; 
That  spared  our  city,  steeple,  roof  and  dome, 
And  drowned  the  Texans  out  of  house  and  home ; 
Blessed  all  our  continent  with  peace,  to  flood 
The  Balkan  with  a  cataclysm  of  blood. 
Compared  with  blessings  of  so  high  degree, 
Your  private  woes  look  mighty  small — to  me. 


230  L'AUDACE. 


L'AUDACE. 

Daughter  of  God!    Audacity  divine — 

Of  clowns  the  terror  and  of  brains  the  sign — 

Not  thou  the  inspirer  of  the  rushing  fool, 

Not  thine  of  idiots  the  vocal  drool : 

Thy  bastard  sister  of  the  brow  of  brass, 

Presumption,  actuates  the  charging  ass. 

Sky-born  Audacity !  of  thee  who  sings 

Should  strike  with  freer  hand  than  mine  the  strings; 

The  notes  should  mount  on  pinions  true  and  strong, 

For  thou,  the  subject  shouldst  sustain  the  song, 

Till  angels  lean  from  Heaven,  a  breathless  throng! 

Alas !  with  reeling  heads  and  wavering  tails, 

They  (notes,  not  angels)  drop  and  the  hymn  fails; 

The  minstrel's  tender  ringers  and  his  thumbs 

Are  torn  to  rags  upon  the  lyre  he  strums. 

Have  done !  the  lofty  thesis  makes  demand 

For  stronger  voices  and  a  harder  hand : 

Night-howling  apes  to  make  the  notes  aspire, 

And  Poet  Riley's  fist  to  slug  the  rebel  wire ! 


THE  GOD'S  VIEW-POINT.  231 


THE    GOD'S    VIEW-POINT. 

Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen, 

The  wisest  and  the  best  of  men, 

Betook  him  to  the  place  where  sat 

With  folded  feet  upon  a  mat 

Of  precious  stones  beneath  a  palm, 

In  sweet  and  everlasting  calm, 

That  ancient  and  immortal  gent, 

The  God  of  Rational  Content. 

As  tranquil  and  unmoved  as  Fate, 

The  deity  reposed  in  state, 

With  palm  to  palm  and  sole  to  sole, 

And  beaded  breast  and  beetling  jowl, 

And  belly  spread  upon  his  thighs, 

And  costly  diamonds  for  eyes. 

As  Chunder  Sen  approached  and  knelt 

To  show  the  reverence  he  felt; 

Then  beat  his  head  upon  the  sod 

To  prove  his  fealty  to  the  god ; 

And  then  by  gestures  signified 

The  other  sentiments  inside ; 

The  god's  right  eye  (as  Chunder  Sen, 

The  wisest  and  the  best  of  men, 


232  THE  GOD'S  VIEW-POINT. 

Half -fancied)  grew  by  just  a  thought 
More  narrow  than  it  truly  ought. 
Yet  still  that  prince  of  devotees, 
Persistent  upon  bended  knees 
And  elbows  bored  into  the  earth, 
Declared  the  god's  exceeding  worth, 
And  begged  his  favor.    Then  at  last, 
Within  that  cavernous  and  vast 
Thoracic  space  was  heard  a  sound 
Like  that  of  water  underground — 
A  gurgling  note  that  found  a  vent 
At  mouth  of  that  Immortal  Gent 
In  such  a  chuckle  as  no  ear 
Had  e'er  been  privileged  to  hear ! 

Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen, 
The  wisest,  greatest,  best  of  men, 
Heard  with  a  natural  surprise 
That  mighty  midriff  improvise. 
And  greater  yet  the  marvel  was 
When  from  between  those  massive  jaws 
Fell  words  to  make  the  views  more  plain 
The  god  was  pleased  to  entertain : 
"Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen," 
So  ran  the  rede  in  speech  of  men — 
"Foremost  of  mortals  in  assent 
To  creed  of  Rational  Content, 


THE  GOD'S  VIEW-POINT.  233 

Why  come  you  here  to  impetrate 

A  blessing  on  your  scurvy  pate? 

Can  you  not  rationally  be 

Content  without  disturbing  me? 

Can  you  not  take  a  hint — a  wink — 

Of  what  of  all  this  rot  I  think? 

Is  laughter  lost  upon  you  quite, 

To  check  you  in  your  pious  rite  ? 

What !  know  you  not  we  gods  protest 

That  all  religion  is  a  jest? 

You  take  me  seriously? — you 

About  me  make  a  great  ado 

(When  I  but  wish  to  be  alone) 

With  attitudes  supine  and  prone, 

With  genuflexions  and  with  prayers, 

And  putting  on  of  solemn  airs, 

To  draw  my  mind  from  the  survey 

Of  Rational  Content  away ! 

Learn  once  for  all,  if  learn  you  can, 

This  truth,  significant  to  man : 

A  pious  person  is  by  odds 

The  one  most  hateful  to  the  gods." 

Then  stretching  forth  his  great  right  hand, 

Which  shadowed  all  that  sunny  land, 

That  deity  bestowed  a  touch 

Which  Chunder  Sen  not  overmuch 

Enjoyed — a  touch  divine  that  made 

The  sufferer  hear  stars !   They  played 


234  THE  GOD'S  VIEW-POINT. 

And  sang  as  on  Creation's  morn 
When  spheric  harmony  was  born. 

Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen, 
The  most  astonished  man  of  men, 
Fell  straight  asleep,  and  when  he  woke 
The  deity  nor  moved  nor  spoke, 
But  sat  beneath  that  ancient  palm 
In  sweet  and  everlasting  calm. 


THE  ESTHETES.  235 


THE   AESTHETES. 

The  lily  cranks,  the  lily  cranks, 

The  loppy,  loony  lasses ! 
They  multiply  in  rising  ranks 
To  execute  their  solemn  pranks, 

They  moon  along  in  masses. 
Blow,  sweet  lily,  in  the  shade !  O, 
Sunflower  decorate  the  dado! 

The  maiden  ass,  the  maiden  ass, 

The  tall  and  tailless  jenny! 
In  limp  attire  as  green  as  grass, 
She  stands,  a  monumental  brass, 

The  one  of  one  too  many. 
Blow,  sweet  lily,  in  the  shade !   O, 
Sunflower  decorate  the  dado ! 


236  JULY  FOURTH. 


JULY    FOURTH. 

God  said :  "  Let  there  be  noise."     The 

dawning  fire 
Of  Independence  gilded  every  spire. 


WITH  MINE  OWN  PETARD.  237 


WITH    MINE    OWN    PETARD. 

Time  was  the  local  poets  sang  their  songs 
Beneath  their  breath  in  terror  of  the  thongs 
I  snapped  about  their  shins.    Though  mild  the  stroke 
Bards,  like  the  conies,  are  "  a  feeble  folk," 
Fearing  all  noises  but  the  one  they  make 
Themselves — at  which  all  other  mortals  quake. 
Now  from  their  cracked  and  disobedient  throats, 
Like  rats  from  sewers  scampering,  their  notes 
Pour  forth  to  move,  where'er  the  season  serves, 
If  not  our  legs  to  dance,  at  least  our  nerves ; 
As  once  a  ram's-horn  solo  maddened  all 
The  sober-minded  stones  in  Jerich's  wall. 
A  year's  exemption  from  the  critic's  curse 
Mends  the  bard's  courage  but  impairs  his  verse. 
Thus  poolside  frogs,  when  croaking  in  the  night, 
Are  frayed  to  silence  by  a  meteor's  flight, 
Or  by  the  sudden  plashing  of  a  stone 
From  some  adjacent  cottage  garden  thrown, 
But  straight  renew  the  song  with  double  din 
Whene'er  the  light  goes  out  or  man  goes  in. 
Shall  I  with  arms  unbraced  (my  casque  unlatched, 
My  falchion  pawned,  my  buckler,  too,  attached) 


238  WITH  MINE  OWN  PETARD. 

Resume  the  cuishes  and  the  broad  cuirass, 
Accomplishing  my  body  all  in  brass, 
And  arm  in  battle  royal  to  oppose 
A  village  poet  singing  through  the  nose, 
Or  strolling  troubadour  his  lyre  who  strums 
With  clumsy  hand  whose  fingers  all  are  thumbs  ? 
No,  let  them  rhyme ;  I  fought  them  once  before 
And  stilled  their  songs — but,  Satan !   how  they 

swore ! — 

Cuffed  them  upon  the  mouth  whene'er  their  throats 
They  cleared  for  action  with  their  sweetest  notes ; 
Twisted  their  ears  (they  'd  oft  tormented  mine) 
And  damned  them  roundly  all  along  the  line ; 
Clubbed   the    whole   crew    from   the    Parnassian 

slopes, 

A  wreck  of  broken  heads  and  broken  hopes ! 
What  gained  I  so  ?  I  feathered  every  curse 
Launched  at  the  village  bards  with  lilting  verse. 
The  town  approved  and  christened  me  (to  show  its 
High  admiration)  Chief  of  Local  Poets! 


CONSTANCY.  239 


CONSTANCY. 

Dull  were  the  days  and  sober, 

The  mountains  were  brown  and  bare, 

For  the  season  was  sad  October 
And  a  dirge  was  in  the  air. 

The  mated  starlings  flew  over 
To  the  isles  of  the  southern  sea. 

She  wept  for  her  warrior  lover — 
Wept  and  exclaimed:  "Ah,  me! 

"  Long  years  have  I  mourned  my  darling 

In  his  battle-bed  at  rest ; 
And  it 's  O,  to  be  a  starling, 

With  a  mate  to  share  my  nest !  " 

The  angels  pitied  her  sorrow, 

Restoring  her  warrior's  life; 
And  he  came  to  her  arms  on  the  morrow 

To  claim  her  and  take  her  to  wife. 

An  aged  lover — a  portly, 

Bald  lover,  a  trifle  too  stiff, 
With  manners  that  would  have  been  courtly, 

And  would  have  been  graceful,  if — 


240  CONSTANCY. 

If  the  angels  had  only  restored  him 

Without  the  additional  years 
That  had  passed  since  the  enemy  bored  him 

To  death  with  their  long,  sharp  spears. 

As  it  was,  he  bored  her,  and  she  rambled 
Away  with  her  father's  young  groom, 

And  the  old  lover  smiled  as  he  ambled 
Contentedly  back  to  the  tomb. 


SIRES  AND  SONS.  241 


SIRES    AND    SONS. 

Wild  wanton  Luxury  lays  waste  the  land 
With  difficulty  tilled  by  Thrift's  hard  hand ! 
Then  dies  the  State! — and,  in  its  carcass  found, 
The  millionaires,  all  maggot-like,  abound. 
Alas !   was  it  for  this  that  Warren  died, 
And  Arnold  sold  himself  to  t'  other  side, 
Stark  piled  at  Bennington  his  British  dead, 
And  Gates  at  Camden,  Lee  at  Monmouth,  fled?- 
For  this  that  Perry  did  the  foeman  fleece, 
And  Hull  surrender  to  preserve  the  peace  ? 
Degenerate  countrymen,  renounce,  I  pray, 
The  slothful  ease,  the  luxury,  the  gay 
And  gallant  trappings  of  this  idle  life, 
And  be  more  fit  for  one  another's  wife. 


242  A  CHALLENGE. 


A    CHALLENGE. 

A  bull  imprisoned  in  a  stall 

Broke  boldly  the  confining  wall, 

And  found  himself,  when  out  of  bounds, 

Within  a  washerwoman's  grounds. 

Where,  hanging  on  a  line  to  dry, 

A  crimson  skirt  inflamed  his  eye. 

With  bellowings  that  woke  the  dead, 

He  bent  his  formidable  head, 

With  pointed  horns  and  gnarly  forehead ; 

Then,  planting  firm  his  shoulders  horrid, 

Began,  with  rage  made  half  insane, 

To  paw  the  arid  earth  amain, 

Flinging  the  dust  upon  his  flanks 

In  desolating  clouds  and  banks, 

The  while  his  eyes'  uneasy  white 

Betrayed  his  doubt  what  foe  the  bright 

Red  tent  concealed,  perchance,  from  sight. 

The  garment,  which,  all  undismayed, 

Had  never  paled  a  single  shade, 

Now  found  a  tongue — a  dangling  sock, 

Left  carelessly  inside  the  smock : 

"  I  must  insist,  my  gracious  liege, 

That  you  '11  be  pleased  to  raise  the  siege : 


A  CHALLENGE.  243 


My  colors  I  will  never  strike. 
I  know  your  sex — you  're  all  alike. 
Some  small  experience  I  've  had — 
You  're  not  the  first  I  've  driven  mad." 


244  TWO  SHOWS. 


TWO    SHOWS. 

The  showman  (blessing  in  a  thousand  shapes!) 

Parades  a  "  School  of  Educated  Apes !  " 

Small  education  's  needed,  I  opine, 

Or  native  wit,  to  make  a  monkey  shine ; 

The  brute  exhibited  has  naught  to  do 

But  ape  the  larger  apes  who  come  to  view — 

The  hoodlum  with  his  horrible  grimace, 

Long  upper  lip  and  furtive,  shuffling  pace, 

Significant  reminders  of  the  time 

When  hunters,  not  policemen,  made  him  climb; 

The  lady  loafer  with  her  draggling  "  trail," 

That  free  translation  of  an  ancient  tail ; 

The  sand-lot  quadrumane  in  hairy  suit, 

Whose  heels  are  thumbs  perverted  by  the  boot; 

The  painted  actress  throwing  down  the  gage 

To  elder  artists  of  the  sylvan  stage, 

Proving  that  in  the  time  of  Noah's  flood 

Two  ape-skins  held  her  whole  profession's  blood ; 

The  critic  waiting,  like  a  hungry  pup, 

To  write  the  school — perhaps  to  eat  it — up, 

As  chance  or  luck  occasion  may  reveal 


TWO  SHOWS.  245 

To  earn  a  dollar  or  maraud  a  meal. 
To  view  the  school  of  apes  these  creatures  go, 
Unconscious  that  themselves  are  half  the  show. 
These,  if  the  simian  his  course  but  trim 
To  copy  them  as  they  have  copied  him, 
Will  call  him  "educated."    Of  a  verity 
There  's  much  to  learn  by  study  of  posterity. 


246  A  POETS  HOPE. 


A   POET'S    HOPE. 

'T  was  a  weary-looking  mortal,  and  he  wandered  near 

the  portal 

Of  the  melancholy  City  of  the  Discontented  Dead. 
He  was  pale  and  worn  exceeding  and  his  manner  was 

unheeding, 

As  if  it  could  not  matter  what  he  did  nor  what  he 
said. 

"  Sacred   stranger  " — I   addressed   him   with   a   rever- 
ence befitting 
The    austere,    unintermitting,    dread    solemnity    he 

wore; 
'T  is  the  custom,  too,  prevailing  in  that  vicinage  when 

hailing 

One  who  possibly  may  be  a  person  lately  "  gone  be- 
fore"- 

"  Sacred   stranger,   much   I   ponder  on  your  evident 

dejection, 
But  my  carefulest  reflection  leaves  the  riddle  still 

unread. 
How  do  you  yourself  explain  your  dismal  tendency  to 

wander 
By  the  melancholy  City  of  the  Discontented  Dead  ?  " 


A  POETS  HOPE.  247 

Then  that  solemn  person,  pausing  in  the  march  that 

he  was  making, 
Roused  himself  as  if  awaking,  fixed  his  dull  and 

stony  eye 
On  my  countenance  and,  slowly,  like  a  priest  devout 

and  holy, 

Chanted    in    a    mournful    monotone    the    following 
reply : 

"  O  my  brother,  do  not  fear  it ;  I  'm  no  disembodied 

spirit — 
I  am  Lampton,  the  Slang  Poet,  with  a  price  upon 

my  head. 
I  am  watching  by  this  portal  for  some  late  lamented 

mortal 
To  arise  in  his  disquietude  and  leave  his  earthy  bed. 

"Then  I  hope  to  take  possession  and  pull  in  the  earth 

above  me 
And,  renouncing  my  profession,  ne'er  be  heard  of 

any  more. 
For  there's  not  a  soul  to  love  me  and  no  living  thing 

respects  me, 

Which  so  painfully  affects  me  that  I  fain  would  'go 
before/  " 

Then  I  felt  a  deep  compassion   for  the  gentleman's 
dejection, 


248  A  POETS  HOPE. 

For  privation  of  affection  would  refrigerate  a  frog. 
So  I  said :  "  If  nothing  human,  and  if  neither  man  nor 

woman 
Can  appreciate  the  fashion  of  your  merit — buy  a 

dog." 


THE   WOMAN  AND   THE  DEVIL.  249 


THE    WOMAN    AND    THE    DEVIL. 

When  Man  and  Woman  had  been  made, 

All  but  the  disposition, 
The  Devil  to  the  workshop  strayed, 

And  somehow  gained  admission. 

The  Master  rested  from  his  work, 

For  this  was  on  a  Sunday, 
The  man  was  snoring  like  a  Turk, 

Content  to  wait  till  Monday. 

"  Too  bad ! "  the  Woman  cried ;  "Oh,  why, 
Does  slumber  not  benumb  me? 

A  disposition !   Oh,  I  die 

To  know  if  't  will  become  me !  " 

The  Adversary  said :  "  No  doubt 
'T  will  be  extremely  fine,  ma'am, 

Though  sure  't  is  long  to  be  without — 
I  beg  to  lend  you  mine,  ma'am." 

The  Devil's  disposition  when 

She  'd  got,  of  course  she  wore  it, 

For  she  M  no  disposition  then, 
Nor  now  has,  to  restore  it. 


250  TWO  ROGUES. 


TWO    ROGUES. 

Dim,  grim,  and  silent  as  a  ghost, 

The  sentry  occupied  his  post, 

To  all  the  stirrings  of  the  night 

Alert  of  ear  and  sharp  of  sight. 

A  sudden  something — sight  or  sound, 

About,  above,  or  underground, 

He  knew  not  what,  nor  where — ensued, 

Thrilling  the  sleeping  solitude. 

The  soldier  cried :  "  Halt !  Who  goes  there  ?  " 

The  answer  came :  "  Death — in  the  air." 

"  Advance,  Death — give  the  countersign, 

Or  perish  if  you  cross  that  line ! " 

To  change  his  tone  Death  thought  it  wise — 

Reminded  him  they  'd  been  allies 

Against  the  Russ,  the  Frank,  the  Turk, 

In  many  a  bloody  bit  of  work. 

"  In  short,"  said  he,  "  in  every  weather 

We  've  soldiered,  you  and  I,  together." 

The  sentry  would  not  let  him  pass. 

"  Go  back,"  he  growled,  "  you  tiresome  ass — 

Go  back  and  rest  till  the  next  war, 

Nor  kill  by  methods  all  abhor : 


TWO  ROGUES.  251 

Miasma,  famine,  filth  and  vice, 
With  plagues  of  locusts,  plagues  of  lice, 
Foul  food,  foul  water,  and  foul  gases, 
Rank  exhalations  from  morasses. 
If  you  employ  such  low  allies 
This  business  you  will  vulgarize. 
Renouncing  then  the  field  of  fame 
To  wallow  in  a  waste  of  shame, 
I  '11  prostitute  my  strength  and  lurk 
About  the  country  doing  work — 
These  hands  to  labor  I  '11  devote, 
Nor  cut,  by  Heaven,  another  throat !  " 


252  BEECHER. 


BEECHER. 

So,  Beecher  's  dead.    His  was  a  great  soul,  too  — 
Great  as  a  giant  organ  is,  whose  reeds 
Hold  in  them  all  the  souls  of  all  the  creeds 

That  man  has  ever  taught  and  never  knew. 

When  on  this  mighty  instrument  He  laid 

His  hand  Who  fashioned  it,  our  common  moan 
Was  suppliant  in  its  thundering.    The  tone 

Grew  more  vivacious  when  the  Devil  played. 

No  more  those  luring  harmonies  we  hear, 
And  lo !  already  men  forget  the  sound. 
They  turn,  retracing  all  the  dubious  ground 

O'er  which  it  led  them,  pigwise,  by  the  ear. 


NOT  GUILTY.  253 


NOT    GUILTY. 

"I  saw  your  charms  in  another's  arms," 
Said  a  Grecian  swain  with  his  blood  a-boil ; 

"  And  he  kissed  you  fair  as  he  held  you  there, 
A  willing  bird  in  a  serpent's  coil !  " 

The  maid  looked  up  from  the  cinctured  cup 
Wherein  she  was  crushing  the  berries  red, 

Pain  and  surprise  in  her  honest  eyes — 
"  It  was  only  one  o'  those  gods,"  she  said. 


254  PRESENTIMENT. 


PRESENTIMENT. 

With  saintly  grace  and  reverent  tread, 
She  walked  among  the  graves  with  me ; 
Her  every  foot-fall  seemed  to  be 

A  benediction  on  the  dead. 

The  guardian  spirit  of  the  place 

She  seemed,  and  I  some  ghost  forlorn 
Surprised  in  the  untimely  morn 

She  made  with  her  resplendent  face. 

Moved  by  some  waywardness  of  will, 
Three  paces  from  the  path  apart 
She  stepped  and  stood — my  prescient  heart 

Was  stricken  with  a  passing  chill. 

The  folk-lore  of  the  years  agone 

Remembering,  I  smiled  and  thought: 
"  Who  shudders  suddenly  at  naught, 

His  grave  is  being  trod  upon." 

But  now  I  know  that  it  was  more 

Than  idle  fancy.     O,  my  sweet, 

I  did  not  think  such  little  feet 
Could  make  a  buried  heart  so  sore ! 


A  STUDY  IN  GRAY.  255 


A    STUDY    IN    GRAY. 

I  step  from  the  door  with  a  shiver 

(This  fog  is  uncommonly  cold) 
And  ask  myself :  What  did  I  give  her  ? — 

The  maiden  a  trifle  gone-old, 

With  the  head  of  gray  hair  that  was  gold. 

Ah,  well,  I  suppose  't  was  a  dollar, 
And  doubtless  the  change  is  correct, 

Though  it 's  odd  that  it  seems  so  much  smaller 
Than  what  I  'd  a  right  to  expect. 
But  you  pay  when  you  dine,  I  reflect. 

So  I  walk  up  the  street — 't  was  a  saunter 
A  score  of  years  back,  when  I  strolled 

From  this  door ;  and  our  talk  was  all  banter 
Those  days  when  her  hair  was  of  gold, 
And  the  sea-fog  less  searching  and  cold. 

I  button  my  coat  ( for  I  'm  shaken, 
And  fevered  a  trifle,  and  flushed 

With  the  wine  that  I  ought  to  have  taken,) 
Time  was,  at  this  coat  I  'd  have  blushed, 
Though  truly,  't  is  cleverly  brushed. 


256  A  STUDY  IN  GRAY, 

A  score  ?  Why,  that  is  n't  so  very 
Much  time  to  have  lost  from  a  life. 

There  's  reason  enough  to  be  merry : 
I  've  not  fallen  down  in  the  strife, 
But  marched  with  the  drum  and  the  fife. 

If  Hope,  when  she  lured  me  and  beckoned, 
Had  pushed  at  my  shoulders  instead, 

And  Fame,  on  whose  favors  I  reckoned, 
Had  laureled  the  worthiest  head, 
I  could  garland  the  years  that  are  dead. 

Believe  me,  I  've  held  my  own,  mostly 
Through  all  of  this  wild  masquerade ; 

But  somehow  the  fog  is  more  ghostly 

To-night,  and  the  skies  are  more  grayed, 
Like  the  locks  of  the  restaurant  maid. 

If  ever  I  'd  fainted  and  faltered 
I  'd  fancy  this  did  but  appear ; 

But  the  climate,  I  'm  certain,  has  altered — 
Grown  colder  and  more  austere 
Than  it  was  in  that  earlier  year. 

The  lights,  too,  are  strangely  unsteady, 
That  lead  from  the  street  to  the  quay. 

I  think  they  '11  go  out — and  I  'm  ready 
To  follow.    Out  there  in  the  sea 
The  fog-bell  is  calling  to  me. 


A  PARADOX.  257 


A    PARADOX. 

"  If  life  were  not  worth  having,"  said  the  preacher, 
'  'T  would  have  in  suicide  one  pleasant  feature." 
"  An  error,"  said  the  pessimist,  "  you  're  making : 
What 's  not  worth  having  cannot  be  worth  taking." 


258  FOR  MERIT. 


FOR    MERIT. 

To  Parmentier  Parisians  raise 
A  statue  fine  and  large: 

He  cooked  potatoes  fifty  ways, 
Nor  ever  led  a  charge. 

"Palmam  qui  meruit " — the  rest 
You  knew  as  well  as  I ; 

And  best  of  all  to  him  that  best 
Of  sayings  will  apply. 

Let  meaner  men  the  poet's  bays 
Or  warrior's  medal  wear; 

Who  cooks  potatoes  fifty  ways 
Shall  bear  the  palm — de  terre. 


A  BIT  OF  SCIENCE.  259 


A    BIT    OF    SCIENCE. 

What !  photograph  in  colors  ?  JT  is  a  dream 
And  he  who  dreams  it  is  not  overwise, 

If  colors  are  vibration  they  but  seem, 
And  have  no  being.    But  if  Tyndall  lies, 
Why,  come,  then — photograph  my  lady's  eyes. 

Nay,  friend,  you  can't ;  the  splendor  of  their  blue, 
As  on  my  own  beclouded  orbs  they  rest, 

To  naught  but  vibratory  motion  's  due, 
As  heart,  head,  limbs  and  all  I  am  attest. 

How  could  her  eyes,  at  rest  themselves,  be  making 

In  me  so  uncontrollable  a  shaking? 


260  THE  TABLES  TURNED. 


THE   TABLES    TURNED. 

Over  the  man  the  street  car  ran, 

And  the  driver  did  never  grin. 
"  O  killer  of  men,  pray  tell  me  when 

Your  laughter  means  to  begin. 

"  Ten  years  to  a  day  I  've  observed  you  slay, 

And  I  never  have  missed  before 
Your  jubilant  peals  as  your  crunching  wheels 

Were  spattered  with  human  gore. 

"  Why  is  it,  my  boy,  that  you  smother  your  joy, 

And  why  do  you  make  no  sign 
Of  the  merry  mind  that  is  dancing  behind 

A  solemner  face  than  mine  ?  " 

The  driver  replied :  "  I  would  laugh  till  I  cried 

If  I  had  bisected  you ; 
But  I  'd  like  to  explain,  if  I  can  for  the  pain, 

T  is  myself  that  I  've  cut  in  two." 


TO  A  DEJECTED  POET.  261 


TO    A   DEJECTED    POET. 

Thy  gift,  if  that  it  be  of  God, 

Thou  hast  no  warrant  to  appraise, 

Nor  say :  "  Here  part,  O  Muse,  our  ways, 

The  road  too  stony  to  be  trod." 

Not  thine  to  call  the  labor  hard 

And  the  reward  inadequate. 

Who  haggles  o'er  his  hire  with  Fate 
Is  better  bargainer  than  bard. 

What !   count  the  effort  labor  lost 

When  thy  good  angel  holds  the  reed  ? 
It  were  a  sorry  thing  indeed 

To  stay  him  till  thy  palm  be  crossed. 

"  The  laborer  is  worthy  " — nay, 
The  sacred  ministry  of  song 
Is  rapture ! — 't  were  a  grievous  wrong 

To  fix  a  wages-rate  for  play. 


262  A  FOOL. 


A    FOOL. 

Says  Anderson,  Theosophist: 
"  Among  the  many  that  exist 

In  modern  halls, 

Some  lived  in  ancient  Egypt's  clime 
And  in  their  childhood  saw  the  prime 

Of  Karnak's  walls." 

Ah,  Anderson,  if  that  is  true 
'T  is  my  conviction,  sir,  that  you 

Are  one  of  those 
That  once  resided  by  the  Nile, 
Peer  to  the  sacred  Crocodile, 

Heir  to  his  woes. 

My  judgment  is,  the  holy  Cat 

Mews  through  your  larynx  (and  your  hat) 

These  many  years. 

Through  you  the  godlike  Onion  brings 
Its  melancholy  sense  of  things, 

And  moves  to  tears. 


A  FOOL.  263 


In  you  the  Bull  divine  again 
Bellows  and  paws  the  dusty  plain, 

To  nature  true. 

I  challenge  not  his  ancient  hate 
But,  lowering  my  knurly  pate, 

Lock  horns  with  you. 

And  though  Reincarnation  prove 
A  creed  too  stubborn  to  remove, 

And  all  your  school 
Of  Theosophs  I  cannot  scare — 
All  the  more  earnestly  I  swear 

That  you  're  a  fool. 

You  '11  say  that  this  is  mere  abuse 
Without,  in  fraying  you,  a  use. 

That 's  plain  to  see 
With  only  half  an  eye.     Come,  now, 
Be  fair,  be  fair, — consider  how 

It  eases  me! 


264  THE    HUMORIST. 


THE    HUMORIST. 

"  What  is  that,  mother?  " 

"  The  funny  man,  child. 
His  hands  are  black,  but  his  heart  is  mild." 

"  May  I  touch  him,  mother  ?  " 

"  'T  were  foolishly  done : 
He  is  slightly  touched  already,  my  son." 

"  O,  why  does  he  wear  such  a  ghastly  grin  ?  " 
"  That 's  the  outward  sign  of  a  joke  within." 

"  Will  he  crack  it,  mother?" 

"  Not  so,  my  saint ; 
'T  is  meant  for  the  Saturday  Liver  com  plaint." 

"  Does  he  suffer,  mother  ?  " 

"  God  help  him,  yes  ! — 
A  thousand  and  fifty  kinds  of  distress." 

"  What  makes  him  sweat  so  ?  " 

"  The  demons  that  lurk 
In  the  fear  of  having  to  go  to  work." 

"  Why  does  n't  he  end,  then,  his  life  with  a  rope  ?  " 
"  Abolition  of  Hell  has  deprived  him  of  hope." 


MONTEFIORE.  265 


MONTEFIORE. 

I  saw — 't  was  in  a  dream,  the  other  night — 
A  man  whose  hair  with  age  was  thin  and  white : 
One  hundred  years  had  bettered  by  his  birth, 
And  still  his  step  was  firm,  his  eye  was  bright. 

Before  him  and  about  him  pressed  a  crowd. 
Each  head  in  reverence  was  bared  and  bowed, 

And  Jews  and  Gentiles  in  a  hundred  tongues 
Extolled  his  deeds  and  spoke  his  fame  aloud. 

I  joined  the  throng  and,  pushing  forward,  cried, 
"  Montefiore !  "  with  the  rest,  and  vied 

In  efforts  to  caress  the  hand  that  ne'er 
To  want  and  worth  had  charity  denied. 

So  closely  round  him  swarmed  our  shouting  clan 
He  scarce  could  breathe,  and  taking  from  a  pan 

A  gleaming  coin  he  tossed  it  o'er  our  heads, 
And  in  a  moment  was  a  lonely  man ! 


266  A   WARNING. 


A    WARNING. 

Cried  Age  to  Youth :  "  Abate  your  speed  !- 
The  distance  hither  's  brief  indeed." 
But  Youth  pressed  on  without  delay — 
The  shout  had  reached  but  half  the  way. 


DISCRETION.  267 


DISCRETION. 

SHE: 
I  'm  told  that  men  have  sometimes  got 

Too  confidential,  and 
Have  said  to  one  another  what 

They — well,  you  understand. 
I  hope  I  don't  offend  you,  sweet, 
But  are  you  sure  that  you  're  discreet  ? 

HE: 

'T  is  true,  sometimes  my  friends  in  wine 

Their  conquests  do  recall, 
But  none  can  truly  say  that  mine 

Are  known  to  him  at  all. 
I  never,  never  talk  you  o'er — 
In  truth,  I  never  get  the  floor. 


268  AN    EXILE. 


AN    EXILE. 

'T  is  the  census  enumerator 

A-singing  all  forlorn : 
"  It 's  ho !   for  the  tall  potater, 

And  ho !   for  the  clustered  corn. 
The  whiffle-tree  bends  in  the  breeze  and 

the  fine 
Large  eggs  are  a-ripening  on  the  vine. 

"  Some  there  must  be  to  till  the  soil 
And  the  widow's  weeds  keep  down. 

I  was  n't  cut  out  for  rural  toil 

But  they  won't  let  me  live  in  town ! 

They  're  not  so  many  by  two  or  three, 
As  they  think,  but  ah !  they  're  too 
many  for  me." 

Thus  the  census  man,  bowed  down  with 

care, 

Warbled  his  wood-note  high. 
There  was  blood  on  his  brow  and  blood 

in  his  hair, 
But  he  had  no  blood  in  his  eye. 


THE  DIVISION  SUPERINTENDENT.  269 


THE   DIVISION    SUPERINTENDENT. 

Baffled  he  stands  upon  the  track — 
The  automatic  switches  clack. 

Where'er  he  turns  his  solemn  eyes 
The  interlocking  signals  rise. 

The  trains,  before  his  visage  pale, 
Glide  smoothly  by,  nor  leave  the  rail. 

No  splinter-spitted  victim  he 
Hears  uttering  the  note  high  C. 

In  sorrow  deep  he  hangs  his  head, 
A-weary — would  that  he  were  dead. 

Now  suddenly  his  spirits  rise — 
A  great  thought  kindles  in  his  eyes. 

Hope,  like  a  headlight's  vivid  glare, 
Splendors  the  path  of  his  despair. 

His  genius  shines,  the  clouds  roll  back — 
"  I  '11  place  obstructions  on  the  track !  " 


270  PSYCHOGRAPHS. 


PSYCHOGRAPHS. 

Says  Gerald  Massey :  "  When  I  write,  a  band 
Of  souls  of  the  departed  guides  my  hand." 
How  strange  that  poems  cumbering  our  shelves, 
Penned  by  immortal  parts,  have  none  themselves ! 


TO  A  PROFESSIONAL  EULOGIST.  271 


TO    A    PROFESSIONAL   EULOGIST. 

Newman,  in  you  two  parasites  combine : 

As  tapeworm  and  as  graveworm  too  you  shine. 

When  on  the  virtues  of  the  quick  you  've  dwelt, 

The  pride  of  residence  was  all  you  felt 

(What  vain  vulgarian  the  wish  ne'er  knew 

To  paint  his  lodging  a  flamboyant  hue  ?) 

And  when  the  praises  of  the  dead  you  've  sung, 

'T  was  appetite,  not  truth,  inspired  your  tongue ; 

As  ill-bred  men  when  warming  to  their  wine 

Boast  of  its  merit  though  it  be  but  brine. 

Nor  gratitude  incites  your  song,  nor  should — 

Even  charity  would  shun  you  if  she  could. 

You  share,  't  is  true,  the  rich  man's  daily  dole, 

But  what  you  get  you  take  by  way  of  toll. 

Vain  to  resist  you — vermifuge  alone 

Has  power  to  push  you  from  your  robber  throne. 

When  to  escape  you  he  's  compelled  to  die 

Hey !  presto ! — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 

You  vanish  as  a  tapeworm,  reappear 

As  graveworm  and  resume  your  curst  career. 

As  host  no  more,  to  satisfy  your  need 

He  serves  as  dinner  your  unaltered  greed. 

O  thrifty  sycophant  of  wealth  and  fame, 


272  TO  A  PROFESSIONAL  EULOGIST. 

Son  of  servility  and  priest  of  shame, 

While  naught  your  mad  ambition  can  abate 

To  lick  the  spittle  of  the  rich  and  great ; 

While  still  like  smoke  your  eulogies  arise 

To  soot  your  heroes  and  inflame  our  eyes ; 

While  still  with  holy  oil,  like  that  which  ran 

Down  Aaron's  beard,  you  smear  each  famous  man, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  it  very  odd 

It  ne'er  occurs  to  you  to  fawn  on  God. 


FOR  WOUNDS.  273 


FOR    WOUNDS. 

O  bear  me,  gods,  to  some  enchanted  isle 
Where  woman's  tears  can  antidote  her  smile. 


274  ELECTION  DAY. 


ELECTION    DAY. 

Despots  effete  upon  tottering  thrones 
Unsteadily  poised  upon  dead  men's  bones, 
Walk  up !   walk  up !   the  circus  is  free, 
And  this  wonderful  spectacle  you  shall  see : 
Millions  of  voters  who  mostly  are  fools — 
Demagogues'  dupes  and  candidates'  tools, 
Armies  of  uniformed  mountebanks, 
And  braying  disciples  of  brainless  cranks. 
Many  a  week  they  've  bellowed  like  beeves, 
Bitterly  blackguarding,  lying  like  thieves, 
Libeling  freely  the  quick  and  the  dead 
And  painting  the  New  Jerusalem  red. 
Tyrants  monarchical — emperors,  kings, 
Princes  and  nobles  and  all  such  things — 
Noblemen,  gentlemen,  step  this  way : 
There  's  nothing,  the  Devil  excepted,  to  pay, 
And  the  freaks  and  curios  here  to  be  seen 
Are  very  uncommonly  grand  and  serene. 

No  more  with  vivacity  they  debate, 
Nor  cheerfully  crack  the  illogical  pate ; 
No  longer,  the  dull  understanding  to  aid, 
The  stomach  accepts  the  instructive  blade, 


ELECTION  DAY.  275 

Nor  the  stubborn  heart  learns  what  is  what 
From  a  revelation  of  rabbit-shot; 
And  villification's  flames — behold! 
Burn  with  a  bickering  faint  and  cold. 

Magnificent  spectacle! — every  tongue 
Suddenly  civil  that  yesterday  rung 
(Like  a  clapper  beating  a  brazen  bell) 
Each  fair  reputation's  eternal  knell; 
Hands  no  longer  delivering  blows, 
And  noses,  for  counting,  arrayed  in  rows. 

Walk  up,  gentlemen — nothing  to  pay — 
The  Devil  goes  back  to  Hell  to-day. 


276  THE  MILITIAMAN. 


THE    MILITIAMAN. 

"  O  warrior  with  the  burnished  arms — 

With  bullion  cord  and  tassel — 
Pray  tell  me  of  the  lurid  charms 
Of  service  and  the  fierce  alarms : 

The  storming  of  the  castle, 
The  charge  across  the  smoking  field, 

The  rifles'  busy  rattle — 
What  thoughts  inspire  the  men  who  wield 
The  blade — their  gallant  souls  how  steeled 

And  fortified  in  battle." 

"  Nay,  man  of  peace,  seek  not  to  know 

War's  baleful  fascination — 
The  soldier's  hunger  for  the  foe, 
His  dread  of  safety,  joy  to  go 

To  court  annihilation. 
Though  calling  bugles  blow  not  now, 

Nor  drums  begin  to  beat  yet, 
One  fear  unmans  me,  I  '11  allow, 
And  poisons  all  my  pleasure :  How 

If  I  should  get  my  feet  wet ! 


A  LITERARY  METHOD:'  277 


"A  LITERARY  METHOD." 

His  poems  Riley  says  that  he  indites 

Upon  an  empty  stomach.    Heavenly  Powers, 

Feed  him  throat-full :  for  what  the  beggar  writes 
Upon  his  empty  stomach  empties  ours ! 


278  A   WELCOME. 


A    WELCOME. 

Because  you  call  yourself  Knights  Templar,  and 
There  's  neither  Knight  nor  Temple  in  the  land, — 

Because  you  thus  by  vain  pretense  degrade 
To  paltry  purposes  traditions  grand, — 

Because  to  cheat  the  ignorant  you  say 
The  thing  that 's  not,  elated  still  to  sway 

The  crass  credulity  of  gaping  fools 
And  women  by  fantastical  display, — 

Because  no  sacred  fires  did  ever  warm 

Your  hearts,  high  knightly  service  to  perform — 

A  woman's  breast  or  coffer  of  a  man 
The  only  citadel  you  dare  to  storm, — 

Because  while  railing  still  at  lord  and  peer, 
At  pomp  and  fuss-and-feathers  while  you  jeer, 

Each  member  of  your  order  tries  to  graft 
A  peacock's  tail  upon  his  barren  rear, — 

Because  that  all  these  things  are  thus  and  so, 
I  bid  you  welcome  to  our  city.    Lo ! 

You  're  free  to  come,  and  free  to  stay,  and  free 
As  soon  as  it  shall  please  you,  sirs — to  go. 


A  SERENADE.  279 


A    SERENADE. 


as   aycwro,  eras 

He  sang  beneath  her  lattice. 
"  'Sas  agapo'  ?  "  she  murmured  —  "O, 
I  wonder,  now,  what  that  is  !  " 

Was  she  less  fair  that  she  did  bear 
So  light  a  load  of  knowledge? 

Are  loving  looks  got  out  of  books, 
Or  kisses  taught  in  college? 

Of  woman's  lore  give  me  no  more 

Than  how  to  love,  —  in  many 
A  tongue  men  brawl  :  she  speaks  them  all 

Who  says  "I  love/'  in  any. 


28o  THE  WISE  AND  GOOD. 


THE   WISE   AND    GOOD. 

"  O  father,  I  saw  at  the  church  as  I  passed 

The  populace  gathered  in  numbers  so  vast 

That  they  could  n't  get  in  ;  and  their  voices  were  low, 

And  they  looked  as  if  suffering  terrible  woe." 

"  'T  was  the  funeral,  child,  of  a  gentleman  dead 
For  whom  the  great  heart  of  humanity  bled." 

"  What  made  it  bleed,  father,  for  every  day 
Somebody  passes  forever  away? 
Do  the  newspaper  men  print  a  column  or  more 
Of  every  person  whose  troubles  are  o'er  ?  " 

"  O,  no ;  they  could  never  do  that — and  indeed, 
Though  printers  might  print  it,  no  reader  would  read. 
To  the  sepulcher  all,  soon  or  late,  must  be  borne, 
But  't  is  only  the  Wise  and  the  Good  that  all  mourn." 

"  That 's  right,  father  dear,  but  how  can  our  eyes 
Distinguish  in  dead  men  the  Good  and  the  Wise  ?  " 

"  That 's  easy  enough  to  the  stupidest  mind : 

They  're  poor,  and  in  dying  leave  nothing  behind." 


THE  WISE  AND  GOOD.  281 

"  Seest  thou  in  mine  eye,  father,  anything  green  ? 
And  takest  thy  son  for  a  gaping  marine? 
Go  tell  thy  fine  tale  of  the  Wise  and  the  Good 
Who  are  poor  and  lamented  to  babes  in  the  wood." 

And  that  horrible  youth  as  I  hastened  away 
Was  building  a  wink  that  affronted  the  day. 


282  THE  LOST  COLONEL. 


THE    LOST    COLONEL. 

T  is  a  woeful  yarn/'  said  the  sailor  man  bold 
Who  had  sailed  the  northern  lakes — 
"  No  woefuler  one  has  ever  been  told 
Exceptin'  them  called  'fakes.'  " 

"  Go  on,  thou  son  of  the  wind  and  fog, 

For  I  burn  to  know  the  worst !  " 
But  his  silent  lip  in  a  glass  of  grog 

Was  dreamily  immersed. 

Then  he  wiped  it  on  his  sleeve  and  said : 

"It's  never  like  that  I  drinks 
But  what  of  the  gallant  gent  that 's  dead 

I  truly  mournful  thinks. 

"  He  was  a  soldier  chap — leastways 

As  'Colonel'  he  was  knew; 
An'  he  hailed  from  some'rs  where  they  raise 

A  grass  that 's  heavenly  blue. 

"  He  sailed  as  a  passenger  aboard 

The  schooner  'Henery  Jo.' 
O  wild  the  waves  and  galeses  roared, 

Like  taggers  in  a  show! 


THE  LOST  COLONEL.  283 

"  But  he  sat  at  table  that  calm  an'  mild 

As  if  he  never  had  let 
His  sperit  know  that  the  waves  was  wild 

An'  everlastin'  wet! — 

"Jest  set  with  a  bottle  afore  his  nose, 

As  was  labeled  Total  Eclipse' 
(The  bottle  was)  an'  he  frequent  rose 

A  glass  o'  the  same  to  his  lips. 

"An'  he  says  to  me  (for  the  steward  slick 

Of  the  'Henery  Jo'  was  I)  : 
1  This  sailor  life  's  the  very  old  Nick — 

On  the  lakes  it 's  powerful  dry ! ' 

"  I  says :  'Aye,  aye,  sir,  it  beats  the  Dutch. 

I  hopes  you  '11  outlast  the  trip.' 
But  if  I  'd  been  him — an'  I  said  as  much — 

I  'd  'a'  took  a  faster  ship. 

"  His  laughture,  loud  an'  long  an'  free, 

Rang  out  o'er  the  tempest's  roar. 
*  You  're  an  elegant  reasoner,'  says  he, 

'  But  it 's  powerful  dry  ashore ! ' : 

"  O  mariner  man,  why  pause  and  don 

A  look  of  so  deep  concern? 
Have  another  glass — go  on,  go  on, 

For  to  know  the  worst  I  burn." 


284  THE  LOST  COLONEL. 

"  One  day  he  was  leanin'  over  the  rail, 
When  his  footing  some  way  slipped, 

An'  (this  is  the  woefulest  part  o'  my  tale), 
He  was  accidental  unshipped! 

"  The  empty  boats  was  overboard  hove, 
As  he  swum  in  the  'HeneryV  wake; 

But  'fore  we  had  'bouted  ship  he  had  drove 
From  sight  on  the  ragin'  lake !  " 

"And  so  the  poor  gentleman  was  drowned — 
And  now  I  'm  apprised  of  the  worst." 

"  What !  him  ?  'T  was  an  hour  afore  he  was 

found — 
In  the  yawl — stone  dead  o'  thirst !  " 


FOR  TAT.  285 


FOR    TAT. 

O,  heavenly  powers !  will  wonders  never  cease  ?- 

Hair  upon  dogs  and  feathers  upon  geese! 

The  boys  in  mischief  and  the  pigs  in  mire ! 

The  drinking  water  wet !  the  coal  on  fire ! 

In  meadows,  rivulets  surpassing  fair, 

Forever  running,  yet  forever  there ! 

A  tail  appended  to  the  gray  baboon ! 

A  person  coming  out  of  a  saloon ! 

Last,  and  of  all  most  marvelous  to  see, 

A  female  Yahoo  flinging  filth  at  me ! 

If  't  would  but  stick  I  'd  bear  upon  my  coat 

May  Little's  proof  that  she  is  fit  to  vote. 


286  A  DILEMMA. 


A   DILEMMA. 

Filled  with  a  zeal  to  serve  my  fellow  men, 

For  years  I  criticised  their  prose  and  verses : 
Pointed  out  all  their  blunders  of  the  pen, 
Their  shallowness  of  thought  and  feeling ;  then 
Damned  them  up  hill  and  down  with  hearty 
curses ! 

They  said:  "  That's  all  that  he  can  do — just  sneer, 

And  pull  to  pieces  and  be  analytic. 
Why  does  n't  he  himself,  eschewing  fear, 
Publish  a  book  or  two,  and  so  appear 

As  one  who  has  the  right  to  be  a  critic  ? 

"  Let  him  who  knows  it  all  forbear  to  tell 

How  little  others  know,  but  show  his  learning." 
The  public  added :  "  Who  has  written  well 
May  censure  freely" — quoting  Pope.    I  fell 
Into  the  trap  and  books  began  out-turning, — 

Books  by  the  score — fine  prose  and  poems  fair, 

And  not  a  book  of  them  but  was  a  terror, 
They  were  so  great  and  perfect ;  though  I  swear 
I  tried  right  hard  to  work  in,  here  and  there, 
(My  nature  still  forbade)  a  fault  or  error. 


A  DILEMMA.  287 

'T  is  true,  some  wretches,  whom  I  'd  scratched,  no 
doubt, 

Professed  to  find — but  that 's  a  trifling  matter. 
Now,  when  the  flood  of  noble  books  was  out 
I  raised  o'er  all  that  land  a  joyous  shout, 

Till  I  was  thought  as  mad  as  any  hatter! 

(Why  hatters  all  are  mad,  I  cannot  say. 

'T  were  wrong  in  their  affliction  to  revile  'em, 
But  truly,  you  '11  confess  't  is  very  sad 
We  wear  the  ugly  things  they  make.     Begad, 

They'd  be  less  mischievous  in  an  asylum!) 

"Consistency,  thou  art  a" — well,  you're  paste! 

When  next  I  felt  my  demon  in  possession, 
And  made  the  field  of  authorship  a  waste, 
All  said  of  me:   "What  execrable  taste, 

To  rail  at  others  of  his  own  profession !  " 

Good  Lord !  where  do  the  critic's  rights  begin 
Who  has  of  literature  some  clear-cut  notion, 

And  hears  a  voice  from  Heaven  say :  "  Pitch  in"  ? 

He  finds  himself — alas,  poor  son  of  sin — 
Between  the  devil  and  the  deep  blue  ocean! 


288  METEMPSYCHOSIS. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

Once  with  Christ  he  entered  Salem, 
Once  in  Moab  bullied  Balaam, 
Once  by  Apuleius  staged 
He  the  pious  much  enraged. 
And,  again,  his  head,  as  beaver, 
Topped  the  neck  of  Nick  the  Weaver. 
Omar  saw  him  (minus  tether — 
Free  and  wanton  as  the  weather: 
Knowing  naught  of  bit  or  spur) 
Stamping  over  Bahram-Gur. 
Now,  as  Altgeld,  see  him  joy 
As  Governor  of  Illinois ! 


THE  SAINT  AND  THE  MONK.  289 


THE    SAINT   AND    THE    MONK. 

Saint  Peter  at  the  gate  of  Heaven  displayed 
The  tools  and  terrors  of  his  awful  trade ; 
The  key,  the  frown  as  pitiless  as  night, 
That  slays  intending  trespassers  at  sight, 
And,  at  his  side  in  easy  reach,  the  curled 
Interrogation  points  all  ready  to  be  hurled. 

Straight  up  the  shining  cloudway  (it  so  chanced 
No  others  were  about)  a  soul  advanced — 
A  fat,  orbicular  and  jolly  soul 
With  laughter-lines  upon  each  rosy  jowl — 
A  monk  so  prepossessing  that  the  saint 
Admired  him,  breathless,  until  weak  and  faint, 
Forgot  his  frown  and  all  his  questions  too, 
Forgoing  even  the  customary  "  Who  ?  " — 
Threw  wide  the  gate  and,  with  a  friendly  grin, 
Said,  "  'T  is  a  very  humble  home,  but  pray  walk  in." 

The  soul  smiled  pleasantly.    "Excuse  me,  please — 
Who  's  in  there  ?  "     By  insensible  degrees 
The  impudence  dispelled  the  saint's  esteem, 
As  growing  snores  annihilate  a  dream. 
The  frown  began  to  blacken  on  his  brow, 


290  THE  SAINT  AND  THE  MONK. 

His  hand  to  reach  for  "  Whence?  "  and  "  Why  ?  " 

and  "  How  ?  " 

"  O,  no  offense,  I  hope,"  the  soul  explained ; 
"  I  'm  rather — well,  particular.    I  've  strained 
A  point  in  coming  here  at  all ;  't  is  said 
That  Susan  Anthony  (I  hear  she  's  dead 
At  last)  and  all  her  followers  are  here. 
As  company,  they'd  be — confess  it — rather  queer." 

The  saint  replied,  his  rising  anger  past : 
"  What  can  I  do  ? — the  law  is  hard-and-fast, 
Albeit  unwritten  and  on  earth  unknown — 
An  oral  order  issued  from  the  Throne. 
By  but  one  sin  has  Woman  e'er  incurred 
God's  wrath.  To  accuse  Them  Loud  of  that  would 
be  absurd." 

That  friar  sighed,  but,  calling  up  a  smile, 
Said,  slowly  turning  on  his  heel  the  while : 
"  Farewell,  my  friend.    Put  up  the  chain  and  bar — 
I  'm  going,  so  please  you,  where  the  pretty  women 

are/' 
1895- 


THE  OPPOSING  SEX.  291 


THE   OPPOSING   SEX. 

The  Widows  of  Ashur 
Are  loud  in  their  wailing: 

"No  longer  the  'masher' 

Sees  Widows  of  Ashur !  " 

So  each  is  a  lasher 

Of  Man's  smallest  failing. 

The  Widows  of  Ashur 
Are  loud  in  their  wailing. 

The  Cave  of  Adullam, 
That  home  of  reviling — 

No  wooing  can  gull  'em 

In  Cave  of  Adullam. 

No  angel  can  lull  'em 
To  cease  their  defiling 

The  Cave  of  Adullam, 
That  home  of  reviling. 

At  men  they  are  cursing — 
The  Widows  of  Ashur; 

Themselves,  too,  for  nursing 

The  men  they  are  cursing. 

The  praise  they  're  rehearsing 
Of  every  slasher 

At  men.     They  are  cursing 
The  Widows  of  Ashur. 


292  A  WHIPPER-IN. 


A   WHIPPER-IN. 

[Commissioner  of  Pensions  Dudley  has  established  a 
Sunday-school  and  declares  he  will  remove  any  clerk  in 
his  department  who  does  not  regularly  attend. — N.  Y. 
World.] 

Dudley,  great  placeman,  man  of  mark  and  note, 
Worthy  of  honor  from  a  feeble  pen 
Blunted  in  service  of  all  true,  good  men, 

You  serve  the  Lord — in  courses,  table  d'hote: 

Au  naturelj  as  well  as  a  la  Nick — 

"  Eat  and  be  thankful,  though  it  make  you  sick." 

O,  truly  pious  caterer,  forbear 

To  push  the  Saviour  and  Him  crucified 
(Brochette  you  'd  call  it)  into  their  inside 

Who  're  all  unused  to  such  ambrosial  fare. 

The  stomach  of  the  soul  makes  quick  revulsion 

Of  aught  that  it  has  taken  on  compulsion. 

I  search  the  Scriptures,  but  I  do  not  find 
That  e'er  the  Spirit  beats  with  angry  wings 
For  entrance  to  the  heart,  but  sits  and  sings 

To  charm  away  the  scruples  of  the  mind. 

It  says  :  "  Receive  me,  please ;  I  '11  not  compel" — 

Though  if  you  don't  you  will  go  straight  to  Hell ! 


A   WHIPPER-IN.  293 

Well,  that 's  compulsion,  you  will  say.    'T  is  true : 

We  cower  timidly  beneath  the  rod 

Lifted  in  menace  by  an  angry  God, 
But  won't  endure  it  from  an  ape  like  you. 
Detested  simian  with  thumb  prehensile, 
Switch  me  and  I  would  brain  you  with  my  pencil ! 

Face  you  the  Throne,  nor  dare  to  turn  your  back 
On  its  transplendency  to  flog  some  wight 
Who  gropes  and  stumbles  in  the  infernal  night 

Your  ugly  shadow  lays  along  his  track. 

O,  Thou  who  from  the  Temple  scourged  the  sin, 

Behold  what  rascals  try  to  scourge  it  in ! 


294  JUDGMENT. 


JUDGMENT. 

I  drew  aside  the  Future's  veil 

And  saw  upon  his  bier 
The  poet  Whitman.    Loud  the  wail 

And  damp  the  falling  tear. 

"  He  's  dead — he  is  no  more !  "  one  cried, 
With  sobs  of  sorrow  crammed ; 

"  No  more  ?  He  's  this  much  more," 

replied 
Another :  "  he  is  damned !  " 

1885. 


THE  FALL  OF  MISS  LARK1N.  295 


THE    FALL   OF    MISS    LARKIN. 

Hear  me  sing  of  Sally  Larkin  who,  I  'd  have  you  un- 
derstand, 

Played  accordions  as  well  as  any  lady  in  the  land ; 
And  I  've  often  heard  it  stated  that  her  fingering  was 

such 
That  Professor  Schweinenhauer  was  enchanted  with 

her  touch ; 
And  that  beasts  were  so  affected  when  her  apparatus 

rang 
That  they  dropped  upon  their  haunches  and  deliriously 

sang. 

This  I  know  from  testimony,  though  a  critic,  I  opine, 
Needs  an  ear  that  is  dissimilar  in  some  respects  to 

mine. 
She  could  sing,  too,  like  a  jaybird,  and  they  say  all 

eyes  were  wet 
When   Sally  and  the   ranch-dog  were  performing  a 

duet— 

Which  I  take  it  is  a  song  that  has  to  be  so  loudly  sung 
As  to  overtax  the  strength  of  any  single  human  lung. 
That,  at  least,  would  seem  to  follow  from  the  tale  I 

have  to  tell, 
Which  (I've  told  you  how  she  flourished)  is  how  Sally 

Larkin  fell. 


2Q6  THE  FALL  OF  MISS  LARKIN. 

One  day  there  came  to  visit  Sally's  dad  as  sleek  and 

smart 

A  chap  as  ever  wandered  there  from  any  foreign  part. 
Though  his  gentle  birth  and  breeding  he  did  not  at  all 

obtrude 
It  was  somehow  whispered  round  he  was  a  simon-pure 

Dude. 
Howsoe'er  that  may  have  been,  it  was  conspicuous  to 

see 

That  he  was  a  real  Gent  of  an  uncommon  high  degree. 
That  Sally  cast  her  tender  and  affectionate  regards 
On  this  exquisite  creation  was,  of  course,  upon  the 

cards ; 

But  he  did  n't  seem  to  notice,  and  was  variously  blind 
To  her  many  charms  of  person  and  the  merits  of  her 

mind, 
And  preferred,  I  grieve  to  say  it,  to  play  poker  with 

her  dad, 
And  acted  in  a  manner  that  in  general  was  bad. 

One  evening — 't  was  in  summer — she  was  holding  in 
her  lap 

Her  accordion,  and  near  her  stood  that  melancholy 
chap, 

Leaning  up  against  a  pillar  with  his  lip  in  grog  im- 
brued, 

Thinking,  maybe,  of  that  ancient  land  in  which  he  was 
a  Dude. 


THE  FALL  OF  MISS  LARKIN.  297 

Then  Sally,  who  was  melancholy  too,  began  to  hum 

And  elongate  the  accordion  with  a  preluding  thumb. 

Then  sighs  of  amorosity  from  Sally  L.  exhaled, 

And  her  music  apparatus  sympathetically  wailed. 

"  In  the  gloaming,  O  my  darling !  "  rose  that  wild  im- 
passioned strain, 

And  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  with  an  intensity  of 
pain, 

Till  the  ranch-dog  from  his  kennel  at  the  postern  gate 
came  round, 

And  going  into  session  strove  to  magnify  the  sound. 

He  lifted  up  his  spirit  till  the  gloaming  rang  and  rang 

With  the  song  that  to  his  darling  he  impetuously  sang ! 

Then  that  musing  youth,  recalling  all  his  soul  from 
other  scenes, 

Where  his  fathers  all  were  Dudes  and  his  mothers 
all  Dudines, 

From  his  lips  removed  the  beaker  and  politely,  o'er  the 
grog, 

Said :  "  Miss  Larkin,  please  be  quiet :  you  will  inter- 
rupt the  dog." 


IN  HIGH  LIFE. 


IN    HIGH    LIFE. 

Sir  Impycu  Lackland,  from  over  the  sea, 
Has  led  to  the  altar  Miss  Bloatie  Bondee. 
The  wedding  took  place  at  the  Church  of  St.  Blare ; 
The  fashion,  the  rank  and  the  wealth  were  all  there — 
No  person  was  absent  of  all  whom  one  meets. 
Lord  Mammon  himself  bowed  them  into  their  seats, 
While  good  Sir  John  Satan  attended  the  door 
And  Sexton  Beelzebub  managed  the  floor, 
Respectfully  keeping  each  dog  to  its  rug, 
Preserving  the  peace  between  poodle  and  pug. 
Twelve  bridesmaids  escorted  the  bride  up  the  aisle 
To  blush  in  her  blush  and  to  smile  in  her  smile ; 
Twelve  groomsmen  supported  the  eminent  groom 
To  scowl  in  his  scowl  and  to  gloom  in  his  gloom. 
The  rites  were  performed  by  the  hand  and  the  lip 
Of  his  Grace  the  Diocesan,  Billingham  Pip, 
Assisted  by  three  able-bodied  divines. 
He  prayed  and  they  grunted,  he  read,  they  made 

signs. 

Such  fashion,  such  beauty,  such  dressing,  such  grace 
Were  ne'er  before  seen  in  that  heavenly  place ! 
That  night,  full  of  gin,  and  all  blazing  inside, 
Sir  Impycu  blackened  the  eyes  of  his  bride. 


A  BUBBLE.  299 


A    BUBBLE. 

Mrs.  Mehitable  Marcia  Moore 

Was  a  dame  of  superior  mind, 
With  a  gown  which,  modestly  fitting  before, 

Was  greatly  puffed  up  behind. 

The  bustle  she  wore  was  ingeniously  planned 

With  an  inspiration  bright : 
It  magnified  seven  diameters  and 

Was  remarkably  nice  and  light. 

It  was  made  of  rubber  and  edged  with  lace 

And  riveted  all  with  brass, 
And  the  whole  immense  interior  space 

Inflated  with  hydrogen  gas. 

The  ladies  all  said  when  she  hove  in  view 
Like  the  round  and  rising  moon : 

"  She  's  a  stuck  up  thing !  "  which  was  partly 

true, 
And  men  called  her  the  Captive  Balloon. 

To  Manhattan  Beach  for  a  bath  one  day 
She  went  and  she  said :  "  O  dear ! 


300  A  BUBBLE. 

If  I  leave  off  this  what  will  people  say? 
I  shall  look  so  uncommonly  queer !  " 

So  a  costume  she  had  accordingly  made 

To  take  it  all  nicely  in, 
And  when  she  appeared  in  that  suit  arrayed, 

She  was  greeted  with  many  a  grin. 

Proudly  and  happily  looking  around, 

She  waded  out  into  the  wet, 
But  the  water  was  very,  very  profound, 

And  her  feet  and  her  forehead  met ! 

As  her  bubble  drifted  away  from  the  shore, 

On  the  glassy  billows  borne, 
All  cried :  "  Why,  where  is  Mehitable  Moore  ? 

I  saw  her  go  in,  I  '11  be  sworn !  " 

Then  the  bulb  it  swelled  as  the  sun  grew  hot, 

Till  it  burst  with  a  sullen  roar, 
And  the  sea  like  oil  closed  over  the  spot — 

Farewell,  O  Mehitable  Moore ! 


A  RENDEZVOUS.  301 


A   RENDEZVOUS. 

Nightly  I  put  up  this  humble  petition : 
"  Forgive  me,  O  Father  of  Glories, 

My  sins  of  commission,  my  sins  of  omission, 
My  sins  of  the  Mission  Dolores." 


302  FRANC1NE. 


FRANCINE. 

Did  I  believe  the  angels  soon  would  call 
You,  my  beloved,  to  the  other  shore, 
And  I  should  never  see  you  any  more, 

I  love  you  so  I  know  that  I  should  fall 

Into  dejection  utterly,  and  all 

Love's  pretty  pageantry,  wherein  we  bore 
Twin  banners  bravely  in  the  tumult's  fore, 

Would  seem  as  shadows  idling  on  a  wall. 

So  daintily  I  love  you  that  my  love 

Endures  no  rumor  of  the  winter's  breath, 
And  only  blossoms  for  it  thinks  the  sky 

Forever  gracious,  and  the  stars  above 

Forever  friendly.    Even  the  fear  of  death 
Were  frost  wherein  its  roses  all  would  die. 


AN  EXAMPLE.  303 


AN    EXAMPLE. 

They  were  two  deaf  mutes,  and  they  loved  and 
they 

Resolved  to  be  groom  and  bride ; 
And  they  listened  to  nothing  that  any  could  say, 

Nor  ever  a  word  replied. 

From  wedlock  when  warned  by  the  married  men, 

Maintain  an  invincible  mind : 
Be  deaf  and  dumb  until  wedded — and  then 

Be  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind. 


304  REVENGE. 


REVENGE. 

A  spitcat  sate  on  a  garden  gate 

And  a  snapdog  fared  beneath ; 
Careless  and  free  was  his  mien,  and  he 

Held  a  fiddle-string  in  his  teeth. 

She  marked  his  march,  she  wrought  an  arch 
Of  her  back  and  blew  up  her  tail ; 

And  her  eyes  were  green  as  ever  were  seen, 
And  she  uttered  a  woful  wail. 

The  spitcat's  plaint  was  as  follows :  "  It  ain't 

That  I  am  to  music  a  foe ; 
For  fiddle-strings  bide  in  my  own  inside, 

And  I  twang  them  soft  and  low. 

"  But  that  dog  has  trifled  with  art  and  rifled 

A  kitten  of  mine,  ah  me ! 
That  catgut  slim  was  marauded  from  him : 

T  is  the  string  that  men  call  E." 


REVENGE.  305 

Then  she  sounded  high,  in  the  key  of  Y, 

A  note  that  cracked  the  tombs ; 
And  the  missiles  through  the  firmament  flew 

From  adjacent  sleeping- rooms. 

As  her  gruesome  yell  from  the  gate-post  fell 

She  followed  it  down  to  earth ; 
And  that  snapdog  wears  a  placard  that  bears 

The  inscription :  "  Blind  from  birth." 


3o6        THE  GENESIS  OF  EMBARRASSMENT. 


THE   GENESIS   OF  EMBARRASSMENT. 

When  Adam  first  saw  Eve  he  said : 
"  O  lovely  creature,  share  my  bed." 
Before  consenting,  she  her  gaze 
Fixed  on  the  greensward  to  appraise, 
As  well  as  vision  could  avouch, 
The  value  of  the  proffered  couch. 
And  seeing  that  the  grass  was  green 
And  neatly  clipped  with  a  machine — 
Observing  that  the  flow'rs  were  rare 
Varieties,  and  some  were  fair, 
The  posts  of  precious  woods,  besprent 
With  fragrant  balsams,  diffluent, 
And  all  things  suited  to  her  worth, 
She  raised  her  angel  eyes  from  earth 
To  his  and,  blushing  to  confess, 
Murmured :  "  I  love  you,  Adam — yes." 
Since  then  her  daughters,  it  is  said, 
Look  always  down  when  asked  to  wed. 


IN  CONTUMACIAM.  307 


IN    CONTUMACIAM. 

Och!  Father  McGlynn, 

Ye  appear  to  be  in 
Fer  a  bit  of  a  bout  wid  the  Pope ; 

An'  there  's  divil  a  doubt 

But  he  's  knockin'  ye  out 
While  ye  're  hangin'  onto  the  rope. 

An'  soon  ye  '11  lave  home 

To  thravel  to  Rome, 
For  its  bound  to  Canossa  ye  are. 

Persistin'  to  shtay 

When  ye  're  ordered  away — 
Bedad!  that  is  goin'  too  far! 


3o8  RE-EDIFIED. 


RE-EDIFIED. 

Lord  of  the  tempest,  pray  refrain 
From  leveling  this  church  again. 
Now  in  its  doom,  as  so  you  Ve  willed  it, 
We  acquiesce.    But  you  'II  rebuild  it. 


A  BULLETIN.  309 


A   BULLETIN. 

"  Lothario  is  very  low," 

So  all  the  doctors  tell. 
Nay,  nay,  not  so — he  will  be,  though, 

If  ever  he  get  well. 


310  FROM  THE  MINUTES. 


FROM    THE    MINUTES. 

When,  with  the  force  of  a  ram  that  discharges  its 

ponderous  body 
Straight  at  the  rear  elevation  of  the  luckless  culler  of 

simples, 

The   foot   of   Herculean    Kilgore — statesman   of   sur- 
name suggestive 

Or  carnage  unspeakable! — lit  like  a  missile  prodigious 
Upon  the  Congressional  door  with  a  monstrous  and 

mighty  momentum, 

Causing  that  vain  ineffective  bar  to  political  freedom 
To  fly  from  its  hinges,  effacing  the  nasal  excrescence 

of  Dingley, 
That  luckless  one,  decently  veiling  the  ruin  with  ready 

bandanna, 
Lamented  the  loss  of  his  eminence,  sadly  with  sobs  as 

follows : 

"Ah,  why  was  I  ever  elected  to  the  halls  of  legislation, 
So  soon  to  be  shown  the  door  with  pitiless  emphasis? 

Truly, 
I  've  leaned  on  a  broken  Reed,  and  the  same  has  gone 

back  on  me  meanly. 
Where  now   is  my  prominence,   erstwhile   in   council 

conspicuous,  patent? 


FROM  THE  MINUTES.  311 

Alas,  I  did  never  before  understand  what  I  now  see 

clearly, 

To  wit,  that  Democracy  tends  to  level  all  human  dis- 
tinctions !  " 
His  fate  so  untoward  and  sad  the  Pine-tree  statesman, 

bewailing, 
Stood  in  the  corridor  there  while  Democrats  freed  from 

confinement 
Came  trooping  forth  from  the  chamber,  dissembling 

all,  as  they  passed  him, 
Hilarious  sentiments  painful  indeed  to  observe,  and 

remarking : 
"O  friend  and  colleague  of  the  Speaker,  what  ails  the 

un joyous  proboscis  ?  " 


312  WOMAN  IN  POLITICS. 


WOMAN    IN    POLITICS. 

What,  madam,  run  for  School  Director?  You? 
And  want  my  vote  and  influence?   Well,  well, 

That  beats  me !  Gad !  where  are  we  drifting  to  ? 
In  all  my  life  I  never  have  heard  tell 
Of  such  sublime  presumption,  and  I  smell 

A  nigger  in  the  fence !  Excuse  me,  madam ; 

We  statesmen  sometimes  speak  like  the  old  Adam. 

But  now  you  mention  it — well,  well,  who  knows? 

We  might,  that 's  certain,  give  the  sex  a  show. 
I  have  a  cousin — teacher.   I  suppose 

If  I  stand  in  and  you  're  elected — no  ? 

You  '11  make  no  bargains  ?   That 's  a  pretty  go ! 
But  understand  that  school  administration 
Belongs  to  Politics,  not  Education. 

We  '11  pass  the  teacher  deal ;  but  it  were  wise 
To  understand  each  other  at  the  start. 

You  know  my  business — books  and  school  supplies ; 
You  'd  hardly,  if  elected,  have  the  heart 
Some  small  advantage  to  deny  me — part 

Of  all  my  profits  to  be  yours.    What?   Stealing? 

Please  don't  express  yourself  with  so  much  feeling. 


WOMAN  IN  POLITICS.  313 

You  pain  me,  truly.    Now  one  question  more. 
Suppose  a  fair  young  man  should  ask  a  place 

As  teacher — would  you  (pardon)  shut  the  door 
Of  the  Department  in  his  handsome  face 
Until — I  know  not  how  to  put  the  case — 

Would  you  extort  a  kiss  to  pay  your  favor? 

Good  Lord !  you  laugh  ?  I  thought  the  matter  graver. 

Well,  well,  we  can't  do  business,  I  suspect : 
A  woman  has  no  head  for  useful  tricks. 

My  profitable  offers  you  reject 

And  will  not  promise  anything  to  fix 
The  opposition.    That 's  not  politics. 

Good    morning.      Stay — I  'm    chaffing    you,    con- 
ceitedly. 

Madam.  I  mean  to  vote  for  you — repeatedly. 


314  TO  AN  ASPIRANT. 


TO   AN   ASPIRANT. 

What!  you  a  Senator — you,  Mike  de  Young? 

Still  reeking  of  the  gutter  whence  you  sprung? 

Sir,  if  all  Senators  were  such  as  you, 

Their  hands  so  crimson  and  so  slender,  too, — 

(Shaped  to  the  pocket  for  commercial  work, 

For  literary,  fitted  to  the  dirk) — 

So  black  their  hearts,  so  lily-white  their  livers, 

The  toga's  touch  would  give  a  man  the  shivers. 


A  BALLAD  OF  PIKEVILLE.  315 


A    BALLAD    OF    PIKEVILLE. 

Down  in  Southern  Arizona  where  the  Gila  monster 

thrives, 
And  the  "Mescalero,"  gifted  with  a  hundred  thousand 

lives, 
Every  hour  renounces  one  of  them  by  drinking  liquid 

flame — 

The  assassinating  wassail  that  has  given  him  his  name ; 
Where  the  enterprising  dealer  in  Caucasian  hair  is  seen 
To  hold  his  harvest  festival  upon  his  village-green, 
While  the  late  lamented  tenderfoot  upon  the  plain  is 

spread 

With  a  sanguinary  circle  on  the  summit  of  his  head ; 
Where  the  cactuses  (or  cacti)  lift  their  lances  in  the 

sun, 
And  incautious  jackass-rabbits  come  to  sorrow  as  they 

run, 

Lived  a  colony  of  settlers — old  Missouri  was  the  State 
Where  they  formerly  resided  at  a  prehistoric  date. 

Now,  the  spot  that  had  been  chosen  for  this  colonizing 

scheme 
Was  as  waterless,  believe  me,  as  an  Arizona  stream. 

The  soil  was  naught  but  ashes,  by  the  breezes  driven 
free, 


316  A  BALLAD  OF  PIKEVILLE. 

And  an  acre  and  a  quarter  were  required  to  sprout  a 

pea. 
So   agriculture   languished,    for  the   land   would  not 

produce, 
And  for  lack  of  water,  whisky  was  the  beverage  in 

use — 
Costly  whisky,  hauled  in  wagons  many  a  weary,  weary 

day, 
Mostly  needed  by  the  drivers  to  sustain  them  on  their 

way. 
Wicked  whisky !    King  of  Evils !    Why,  O,  why  did 

God  create 
Such  a  curse  and  thrust  it  on  us  in  our  inoffensive 

state? 

Once  a  parson  came  among  them,  and  a  holy  man  was 

he; 
With   his   ailing   stomach   whisky   wouldn't   anywise 

agree; 
So  he  knelt  upon  the  mesa  and  he  prayed  with  all  his 

chin 
That  the  Lord  would  send  them  water  or  incline  their 

hearts  to  gin. 

Scarcely  was  the  prayer  concluded  ere  an  earthquake 

shook  the  land, 
And  with  copious  effusion  springs  burst  out  on  every 

hand! 
Merrily  the  waters  gurgled,  and  the  shock  which  gave 

them  birth 


A  BALLAD  OF  PIKEVILLE.  317 

Fitly  was  by  some  declared  a  temperance  movement  of 

the  earth. 

Astounded  by  the  miracle,  the  people  met  that  night 
To  celebrate  it  properly  by  some  religious  rite ; 
And  't  is  truthfully  recorded  that  before  the  moon  had 

sunk 

Every  man  and  every  woman  was  devotionally  drunk. 
A  half  a  standard  gallon  (says  history)  per  head 
Of  the  best  Kentucky  prime  was  at  that  ceremony  shed. 
O,  the  glory  of  that  country!    O,  the  happy,  happy 

folk. 
By  the  might  of  prayer  delivered  from  Nature's  broken 

yoke! 
Lo!  the  plains  to  the  horizon  all  are  yellowing  with 

rye, 
And  the  corn  upon  the  hill-top  lifts  its  banners  to  the 

sky! 
Gone  the  wagons,  gone  the  drivers,  and  the  road  is 

grown  to  grass, 
Over   which  the   incalescent   Bourbon   did   aforetime 

pass. 
Pikeville    (that's   the  name  they've  given,   in   their 

wild,  romantic  way, 

To  that  irrigation  district)  now  distills,  statistics  say, 
Something  like  a  hundred  gallons,   out  of  each  re- 
current crop, 
To  the  head  of  population — and  consumes  it,  every 

drop! 


318  A  BUILDER. 


A    BUILDER. 

I  saw  the  devil — he  was  working  free: 

A  customs-house  he  builded  by  the  sea. 

"  Why  do  you  this  ?  "    The  devil  raised  his  head  ; 

"  Churches  and  courts  I  've  built  enough,"  he  said. 


AN  AUGURY.  319 


AN   AUGURY. 

Upon  my  desk  a  single  spray, 
With  starry  blossoms  fraught. 

I  write  in  many  an  idle  way, 
Thinking  one  serious  thought. 

"  O  flowers,  a  fine  Greek  name  ye  bear, 
And  with  a  fine  Greek  grace." 

Be  still,  O  heart,  that  turns  to  share 
The  sunshine  of  a  face. 

"  Have  ye  no  messages — no  brief, 
Still  sign:  '  Despair ',  or  'Hope'?" 

A  sudden  stir  of  stem  and  leaf — 
A  breath  of  heliotrope ! 


320  LUSUS  POLITICKS. 


LUSUS    POLITICUS. 

Come  in,  old  gentleman.    How  do  you  do  ? 

Delighted,  I  'm  sure,  that  you  've  called. 
I  'm  a  sociable  sort  of  a  chap  and  you 
Are  a  pleasant-appearing  person,  too, 

With  a  head  agreeably  bald. 
That 's  right — sit  down  in  the  scuttle  of  coal 

And  put  up  your  feet  in  a  chair. 

It  is  better  to  have  them  there : 
And  I  Ve  always  said  that  a  hat  of  lead, 

Such  as  I  see  you  wear, 
Was  a  better  hat  than  a  hat  of  glass. 
And  your  boots  of  brass 

Are  a  natural  kind  of  boots,  I  swear. 

"  May  you  blow  your  nose  on  a  paper  of  pins  ?  " 
Why,  certainly,  man,  why  not? 

I  rather  expected  you  'd  do  it  before, 

When  I  saw  you  poking  it  in  at  the  door. 

It 's  dev'lish  hot— 

The  weather,  I  mean.    "  You  are  twins"  ? 
Why,  that  was  evident  at  the  start, 

From  the  way  that  you  paint  your  head 
In  stripes  of  purple  and  red, 


LUSUS  POLITICUS.  321 

With  dots  of  yellow. 

That  proves  you  a  fellow 
With  a  love  of  legitimate  art. 
"  You  've  bitten  a  snake  and  are  feeling  bad"  ? 

That 's  very  sad, 

But  Longfellow's  words  I  beg  to  recall : 
Your  lot  is  the  common  lot  of  all. 
"  Horses  are  trees  and  the  moon  is  a  sneeze"  ? 
That,  I  fancy,  is  just  as  you  please. 
Some  think  that  way  and  others  hold 

The  opposite  view ; 

I  never  quite  knew, 

For  the  matter  o'  that, 
When  everything 's  been  said — 

May  I  offer  this  mat 
Jff  you  will  stand  on  your  head  ? 
I  suppose  I  look  to  be  upside  down 
From  your  present  point  of  view. 
It 's  a  giddy  old  world,  from  king  to  clown, 

And  a  topsy-turvy,  too. 
But,  worthy  and  now  uninverted  old  man, 
You  're  built,  at  least,  on  a  normal  plan 

If  ever  a  truth  I  spoke. 
Smoke  ? 

Your  air  and  conversation 

Are  a  liberal  education, 

And  your  clothes,  including  the  metal  hat 

And  the  brazen  boots — what 's  that  ? 


t 

322  LUSUS  POLITICUS. 

"  You  never  could  stomach  a  Democrat 

Since  General  Jackson  ran? 
You  're  another  sort,  but  you  predict 
That  your  party  '11  get  consummately  licked  ?  " 

Good  God !  what  a  queer  old  man ! 


BEREAVEMENT.  323 


BEREAVEMENT. 

A  Countess  (so  they  tell  the  tale) 

Who  dwelt  of  old  in  Arno's  vale, 

Where  ladies,  even  of  high  degree, 

Know  more  of  love  than  of  A.  B.  C, 

Came  once  with  a  prodigious  bribe 

Unto  the  learned  village  scribe, 

That  most  discreet  and  honest  man 

Who  wrote  for  all  the  lover  clan, 

Nor  e'er  a  secret  had  betrayed — 

Save  when  inadequately  paid. 

"  Write  me,"  she  sobbed — "  I  pray  thee  do — 

A  book  about  the  Prince  di  Giu — 

A  book  of  poetry  in  praise 

Of  all  his  works  and  all  his  ways ; 

The  godlike  grace  of  his  address, 

His  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 

His  courage  stern  and  lack  of  guile, 

The  loves  that  wantoned  in  his  smile. 

So  great  he  was,  so  rich  and  kind, 

I  '11  not  within  a  fortnight  find 

His  equal  as  a  lover.    O, 

My  God!    I  shall  be  drowned  in  woe!" 


324  BEREAVEMENT. 

"What!    Prince  di  Giu  has  died!" 

exclaimed 

The  honest  man  for  letters  famed, 
The  while  he  pocketed  her  gold ; 
"  Of  what?— if  I  may  be  so  bold." 
Fresh  storms  of  tears  the  lady  shed : 
"  I  stabbed  him  fifty  times,"  she  said. 


AN  INSCRIPTION.  325 


AN    INSCRIPTION 

FOR    A    STATUE    OF    NAPOLEON,    AT    WEST    POINT. 

A  famous  conqueror,  in  battle  brave, 
Who  robbed  the  cradle  to  supply  the  grave. 
His  reign  laid  quantities  of  human  dust : 
He  fell  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust. 


326  A    PICKBRAIN. 


A    PICKBRAIN. 

What !  imitate  me,  friend  ?  Suppose  that  you 

With  agony  and  difficulty  do 

What  I  do  easily — what  then  ?  You  Ve  got 

A  style  I  heartily  wish  /  had  not. 

If  I  from  lack  of  sense  and  you  from  choice 

Grieve  the  judicious  and  the  unwise  rejoice, 

No  equal  censure  our  deserts  will  suit — 

We  both  are  fools,  but  you  're  an  ape  to  boot 


CONVALESCENT.  327 


CONVALESCENT. 

"  By  good  men's  prayers  see  Grant  restored !  " 
Shouts  Talmage,  pious  creature ! 

Yes,  God,  by  supplication  bored 
From  every  droning  preacher, 

Exclaimed :   "  So  be  it,  tiresome  crew — 

But  I  've  a  crow  to  pick  with  you" 


328  THE   NAVAL    CONSTRUCTOR. 


THE    NAVAL    CONSTRUCTOR. 

He  looked  upon  the  ships  as  they 

All  idly  lay  at  anchor, 
Their  sides  with  gorgeous  workmen 
gay— 

The  riveter  and  planker — 

Republicans  and  Democrats, 

Statesmen  and  politicians. 
He  saw  the  swarm  of  prudent  rats 

Swimming  for  land  positions. 

He  marked  each  "  belted  cruiser  "  fine, 
Her  poddy  life-belts  floating 

In  tether  where  the  hungry  brine 
Impinged  upon  her  coating. 

He  noted  with  a  proud  regard, 
As  any  of  his  class  would, 

The  poplar  mast  and  poplar  yard 
Above  the  hull  of  bass-wood. 


THE   NAVAL   CONSTRUCTOR.  329 

He  saw  the  Eastlake  frigate  tall, 

With  quaintly  carven  gable, 
Hip-roof  and  dormer-window — all 

With  ivy  formidable. 

In  short,  he  saw  our  country's  hope 

In  best  of  all  conditions — 
Equipped,  to  the  last  spar  and  rope, 

By  working  politicians. 

He  boarded  then  the  noblest  ship 

And  from  the  harbor  glided. 
"  Adieu,  adieu !  "  fell  from  his  lip. 

Verdict:   "He  suicided." 

1881. 


330  DETECTED. 


DETECTED. 

En  Congress  once  great  Mowther  shone, 

Debating  weighty  matters; 
Now  into  an  asylum  thrown, 

He  vacuously  chatters. 

If  in  that  legislative  hall 

His  wisdom  still  he  'd  vented, 

It  never  had  been  known  at  all 
That  Mowther  was  demented. 


BIMETALISM.  331 


BIMETALISM. 

Ben  Bulger  was  a  silver  man, 

Though  not  a  mine  had  he : 
He  thought  it  were  a  noble  plan 

To  make  the  coinage  free. 

"  There  hain't  for  years  been  sech  a  time," 

Said  Ben  to  his  bull  pup, 
"  For  biz — the  country  's  broke  and  I  'm 

The  hardest  kind  of  up. 

"  The  paper  says  that  that 's  because 

The  silver  coins  is  sca'ce, 
And  that  the  chaps  which  makes  the  laws 

Puts  gold  ones  in  their  place. 

"  They  says  them  nations  always  be 

Most  prosperatin'  where 
The  wolume  of  the  currency 

Ain't  so  disgustin'  rare." 

His  dog,  which  had  n't  breakfasted, 

Dissented  from  his  view, 
And  wished  that  he  could  swell,  instead, 

The  volume  of  cold  stew. 


332  BIMETALISM. 

"  Nobody  'd  put  me  up,"  said  Ben, 
"  With  patriot  galoots 

Which  benefits  their  feller  men 
By  playin'  warious  roots ; 

"  But  havin'  all  the  tools  about, 
I  'm  goin'  to  commence 

A-turnin'  silver  dollars  out 
Wuth  eighty-seven  cents. 

"  The  feller  takin'  'em  can't  whine ; 

(  No  more,  likewise,  can  I)  : 
They  're  better  than  the  genooine, 

Which  mostly  satisfy. 

"  It's  only  makin'  coinage  free, 
And  mebby  might  augment 

The  wolume  of  the  currency 
A  noomerous  per  cent." 

I  don't  quite  see  his  error  nor 

Malevolence  prepense, 
But  fifteen  years  they  gave  him  for 

That  technical  offense. 


THE  RICH    TESTATOR.  333 


THE   RICH    TESTATOR. 

He  lay  on  his  bed  and  solemnly  "signed," 
Gasping — perhaps  't  was  a  jest  he  meant : 

"  This  of  a  sound  and  disposing  mind 
Is  the  last  ill-will  and  contestament." 


334  TWO    METHODS. 


TWO    METHODS. 

To  bucks  and  ewes  by  the  Good  Shepherd  fed 
The  Priest  delivers  masses  for  the  dead, 
And  even  from  estrays  outside  the  fold 
Death  for  the  masses  he  would  not  withhold. 
The  Parson,  loth  alike  to  free  or  kill, 
Forsakes  the  souls  already  on  the  grill, 
And,  God's  prerogative  of  mercy  shamming, 
Spares  living  sinners  for  a  harder  damning. 


FOUNDATIONS   OF    THE   STATE.  335 


FOUNDATIONS    OF   THE    STATE 

Observe,  dear  Lord,  what  lively  pranks 
Are  played  by  sentimental  cranks ! 
First  this  one  mounts  his  hinder  hoofs 
And  brays  the  chimneys  off  the  roofs ; 
Then  that  one,  with  exalted  voice, 
Expounds  the  thesis  of  his  choice, 
Our  understandings  to  bombard, 
Till  all  the  window  panes  are  starred ! 
A  third  augments  the  vocal  shock 
Till  steeples  to  their  bases  rock, 
Confessing,  as  they  humbly  nod, 
They  hear  and  mark  the  will  of  God. 
A  fourth  in  oral  thunder  vents 
His  awful  penury  of  sense 
Till  dogs  with  sympathetic  howls, 
And  lowing  cows,  and  cackling  fowls, 
Hens,  geese,  and  all  domestic  birds, 
Attest  the  wisdom  of  his  words. 
Cranks  thus  their  intellects  deflate 
Of  theories  about  the  State. 
This  one  avers  't  is  built  on  Truth, 
And  that  on  Temperance.    This  youth 


336  FOUNDATIONS   OF   THE   STATE. 

Declares  that  Science  bears  the  pile; 
That  graybeard,  with  a  holy  smile, 
Says  Faith  is  the  supporting  stone; 
While  women  swear  that  Love  alone 
Could  so  unflinchingly  endure 
The  heavy  load.    And  some  are  sure 
The  solemn  vow  of  Christian  Wedlock 
Is  the  indubitable  bedrock. 

Physicians  once  about  the  bed 

Of  one  whose  life  was  nearly  sped 

Blew  up  a  disputatious  breeze 

About  the  cause  of  his  disease : 

This,  that  and  t'  other  thing  they  blamed. 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  the  dying  man  exclaimed, 

"  What  made  me  ill  I  do  not  care ; 

You  've  not  an  ounce  of  it,  I  '11  swear. 

And  if  you  had  the  skill  to  make  it 

I  'd  see  you  hanged  before  I  'd  take  it !  " 


AN  IMPOSTOR.  337 


AN    IMPOSTER. 

Must  you,  Carnegie,  evermore  explain 

Your  worth,  and  all  the  reasons  give  again 

Why  black  and  red  are  similarly  white, 

And  you  and  God  identically  right? 

Still  must  our  ears  without  redress  submit 

To  hear  you  play  the  solemn  hypocrite 

Walking  in  spirit  some  high  moral  level, 

Raising  at  once  his  eye-balls  and  the  devil  ? 

Great  King  of  Cant !  if  Nature  had  but  made 

Your  mouth  without  a  tongue  I  ne  'er  had  prayed 

To  have  an  earless  head.    Since  she  did  not, 

Bear  me,  ye  whirlwinds,  to  some  favored  spot — 

Some  mountain  pinnacle  that  sleeps  in  air 

So  delicately,  mercifully  rare 

That  when  the  fellow  climbs  that  giddy  hill, 

As,  for  my  sins,  I  know  at  last  he  will, 

To  utter  twaddle  in  that  void  inane 

His  soundless  organ  he  will  play  in  vain. 


338  UNEXPOUNDED. 


UNEXPOUNDED. 

On  Evidence,  on  Deeds,  on  Bills, 
On  Copyhold,  on  Loans,  on  Wills, 

Lawyers  great  books  indite; 
The  creaking  of  their  busy  quills 

I  've  never  heard  on  Right. 


FRANCE.  339 


FRANCE. 

Unhappy  State !  with  horrors  still  to  strive : 

Thy  Hugo  dead,  thy  Boulanger  alive ; 

A  Prince  who  'd  govern  where  he  dares  not 

dwell, 

And  who  for  power  would  his  birthright  sell — 
Who,  anxious  o'er  his  enemies  to  reign, 
Grabs  at  the  scepter  and  conceals  the  chain ; 
While  pugnant  factions  mutually  strive 
By  cutting  throats  to  keep  the  land  alive. 
Perverse  in  passion,  as  in  pride  perverse — 
To  all  a  mistress,  to  thyself  a  curse ; 
Sweetheart  of  Europe !  every  sun's  embrace 
Matures  the  charm  and  poison  of  thy  grace. 
Yet  time  to  thee  nor  peace  nor  wisdom  brings : 
In  blood  of  citizens  and  blood  of  kings 
The  stones  of  thy  stability  are  set, 
And  the  fair  fabric  trembles  at  a  threat. 


340  THE   EASTERN   QUESTION. 


THE    EASTERN    QUESTION. 

Looking  across  the  line,  the  Grecian  said : 
"  This  border  I  will  stain  a  Turkey  red." 
The  Moslem  smiled  securely  and  replied: 
"  No  Greek  has  ever  for  his  country  dyed." 
While  thus  each  patriot  guarded  his  frontier, 
The  Powers  stole  all  the  country  in  his  rear. 


A    GUEST.  341 


A    GUEST. 

Death,  are  you  well  ?  I  trust  you  have  no  cough 
That 's  painful  or  in  any  way  annoying — 

No  kidney  trouble  that  may  carry  you  off, 
Or  heart  disease  to  keep  you  from  enjoying 

Your  meals — and  ours.    'T  were  very  sad  indeed 

To  have  to  quit  the  busy  life  you  lead. 

You  Jve  been  quite  active  lately  for  so  old 
A  person,  and  not  very  strong-appearing. 

I  'm  apprehensive,  somehow,  that  my  bold, 
Bad  brother  gave  you  trouble  in  the  spearing. 

And  my  two  friends — I  fear,  sir,  that  you  ran 

Quite  hard  for  them,  especially  the  man. 

I  crave  your  pardon :  't  was  no  fault  of  mine ; 

If  you  are  overworked  I  'm  sorry,  very. 
Come  in,  old  man,  and  have  a  glass  of  wine. 

What  shall  it  be— Marsala,  Port  or  Sherry? 
What!  just  a  mug  of  blood?  That's  funny  grog 
To  ask  a  friend  for,  eh  ?  Well,  take  it,  hog ! 


342  A   FALSE   PROPHECY. 


A    FALSE    PROPHECY. 

Dom  Pedro,  Emperor  of  far  Brazil 

(Whence  coffee  comes  and  the  three-cornered 
nut), 

They  say  that  you  're  imperially  ill, 

And  threatened  with  paralysis.   Tut-tut! 
Though  Emperors  are  mortal,  nothing  but 

A  nimble  thunderbolt  could  catch  and  kill 

A  man  predestined  to  depart  this  life 

By  the  assassin's  bullet,  bomb  or  knife. 

Sir,  once  there  was  a  President  who  freed 

Ten  million  slaves;  and  once  there  was  a  Czar 

Who  freed  five  times  as  many  serfs.    Sins  breed 
The  means  of  punishment,  and  tyrants  are 
Hurled  headlong  out  of  the  triumphal  car 

If  faster  than  the  law  allows  they  speed. 

Lincoln  and  Alexander  struck  a  rut; 

You  freed  slaves  too.    Paralysis — tut-tut ! 

1885. 


TWO    TYPES.  343 


TWO    TYPES. 

Courageous  fool ! — the  peril's  strength  unknown. 
Courageous  man ! — so  conscious  of  your  own. 


344  SOME   ANTE-MORTEM   EPITAPHS. 


SOME   ANTE-MORTEM    EPITAPHS. 

STEPHEN    DORSEY. 

Fly,  heedless  stranger,  from  this  spot  accurst, 

Where  rests  in  Satan  an  offender  first 

In  point  of  greatness,  as  in  point  of  time, 

Of  new-school  rascals  who  proclaim  their  crime. 

Skilled  with  a  frank  loquacity  to  blab 

The  dark  arcana  of  each  mighty  grab, 

And  famed  for  lying  from  his  early  youth, 

He  sinned  secure  behind  a  veil  of  truth. 

Some  lock  their  lips  upon  their  deeds ;  some  write 

A  damning  record  and  conceal  from  sight ; 

Some,  with  a  lust  of  speaking,  die  to  quell  it. 

His  way  to  keep  a  secret  was  to  tell  it. 

STEPHEN   J.    FIELD. 

Here  sleeps  one  of  the  greatest  students 

Of  jurisprudence. 
Nature  endowed  him  with  the  gift 

Of  the  juristhrift. 
All  points  of  law  alike  he  threw 

The  dice  to  settle. 
Those  honest  cubes  were  loaded  true 

With  railway  metal. 


SOME   ANTE-MORTEM   EPITAPHS.  345 

GENERAL  B.  F.  BUTLER. 

Thy  flesh  to  earth,  thy  soul  to  God, 

We  gave,  O  gallant  brother; 
And  o'er  thy  grave  the  awkward  squad 

Fired  into  one  another! 


Beneath  this  monument  which  rears  its  head, 
A  giant  note  of  admiration — dead, 
His  life  extinguished  like  a  taper's  flame, 
John  Ericsson  is  lying  in  his  fame. 
Behold  how  massive  is  the  lofty  shaft; 
How  fine  the  product  of  the  sculptor's  craft ; 
The  gold  how  lavishly  applied ;  the  great 
Man's  statue  how  impressive  and  sedate! 
Think  what  the  cost  was  !  It  would  ill  become 
Our  modesty  to  specify  the  sum; 
Suffice  it  that  a  fair  per  cent,  we  're  giving 
Of  what  we  robbed  him  of  when  he  was  living. 


Of  Corporal  Tanner  the  head  and  the  trunk 
Are  here  in  unconsecrate  ground  duly  sunk. 
His  legs  in  the  South  claim  the  patriot's  tear, 
But,  stranger,  you  need  n't  be  blubbering  here. 


Jay  Gould  lies  here.    When  he  was  newly  dead 
He  looked  so  natural  that  round  his  bed 


346  SOME   ANTE-MORTEM  EPITAPHS. 

The  people  stood,  in  silence  all,  to  weep. 

They  thought,  poor  souls !  that  he  did  only  sleep. 


Here  Ingalls,  sorrowing,  has  laid 
The  tools  of  his  infernal  trade — 
His  pen  and  tongue.    So  sharp  and  rude 
They  grew — so  slack  in  gratitude, 
His  hand  was  wounded  as  he  wrote, 
And  when  he  spoke  he  cut  his  throat. 


Within  this  humble  mausoleum 
Poor  Guiteau's  flesh  you  '11  find. 

His  bones  are  kept  in  a  museum, 
And  Tillman  has  his  mind. 


Stranger,  uncover ;  here  you  have  in  view 
The  monument  of  Chauncey  M.  Depew. 
Eater  and  orator,  the  whole  world  round 
For  feats  of  tongue  and  tooth  alike  renowned. 
Pauper  in  thought  but  prodigal  in  speech, 
Nothing  he  knew  excepting  how  to  teach. 
But  in  default  of  something  to  impart 
He  multiplied  his  words  with  all  his  heart : 
When  least  he  had  to  say,  instructive  most — 
A  clam  in  wisdom  and  in  wit  a  ghost. 


SOME   ANTE-MORTEM  EPITAPHS.  347 

Dining  his  way  to  eminence,  he  rowed 
With  knife  and  fork  up  water-ways  that  flowed 
From  lakes  of  favor — pulled  with  all  his  force 
And  found  each  river  sweeter  than  the  source. 
Like  rats,  obscure  beneath  a  kitchen  floor, 
Gnawing  and  rising  till  obscure  no  more, 
He  ate  his  way  to  eminence,  and  Fame 
Inscribes  in  gravy  his  immortal  name. 
A  trencher-knight,  he,  mounted  on  his  belly, 
So  spurred  his  charger  that  its  sides  were  jelly. 
Grown  desperate  at  last,  it  reared  and  threw  him, 
And  Indigestion,  overtaking,  slew  him. 

Here  the  remains  of  Schuyler  Colfax  lie; 
Born,  all  the  world  knows  when,  and  Heaven 

knows  why. 

In  '71  he  filled  the  public  eye, 
In  '72  he  bade  the  world  good-bye, 
In  God's  good  time,  with  a  protesting  sigh, 
He  came  to  life  just  long  enough  to  die. 


Of  Morgan  here  lies  the  unspirited  clay, 
Who  secrets  of  Masonry  swore  to  betray. 
He  joined  the  great  Order  and  studied  with  zeal 
The  awful  arcana  he  meant  to  reveal. 
At  last  in  chagrin  by  his  own  hand  he  fell — 
There  was  nothing  to  learn,  there  was  nothing 
to  tell. 


348  A    HYMN    OF    THE   MANY. 


A    HYMN    OF   THE    MANY. 

God's  people  sorely  were  oppressed, 
I  heard  their  lamentations  long; — 
I  hear  their  singing,  clear  and  strong, 

I  see  their  banners  in  the  West ! 

The  captains  shout  the  battle-cry, 
The  legions  muster  in  their  might; 
They  turn  their  faces  to  the  light, 

They  lift  their  arms,  they  testify : 

"  We  sank  beneath  the  Master's  thong, 
Our  chafing  chains  were  ne'er  undone  ;- 
Now  clash  your  lances  in  the  sun 

And  bless  your  banners  with  a  song ! 

"  God  bides  his  time  with  patient  eyes 
While  tyrants  build  upon  the  land ; — 
He  lifts  his  face,  he  lifts  his  hand, 

And  from  the  stones  his  temples  rise. 

"  Now  Freedom  waves  her  joyous  wing 
Beyond  the  foemen's  shields  of  gold. 
March  forward,  singing,  for,  behold, 

The  right  shall  rule  while  God  is  king!" 


ONE   MORNING.  349 


ONE   MORNING. 

Because  that  I  am  weak,  my  love,  and  ill, 
I  cannot  follow  the  impatient  feet 
Of  my  desire,  but  sit  and  watch  the  beat 

Of  the  unpitying  pendulum  fulfill 

The  hour  appointed  for  the  air  to  thrill 

And  brighten  at  your  coming.    O  my  sweet, 
The  tale  of  moments  is  at  last  complete — 

The  tryst  is  broken  on  the  gusty  hill ! 

O  lady,  faithful-footed,  loyal-eyed, 

The  long  leagues  silence  me ;  yet  doubt  me  not 

Think  rather  that  the  clock  and  sun  have  lied 
And  all  too  early  you  have  sought  the  spot. 

For  lo !  despair  has  darkened  all  the  light, 

And  till  I  see  your  face  it  still  is  night. 


350  AN  ERROR. 


AN    ERROR. 

Good  for  he  's  old  ?  Ah,  Youth,  you  do  not  dream 
How  sweet  the  roses  in  the  autumn  seem ! 


AT    THE   "NATIONAL   ENCAMPMENT.1'       351 


AT    THE   "NATIONAL   ENCAMPMENT." 

You  're  grayer  than  one  would  have  thought  you 

The  climate  you  have  over  there 
In  the  East  has  apparently  brought  you 

Disorders  affecting  the  hair, 

Which — pardon  me — seems  a  thought  spare. 

You  '11  not  take  offence  at  my  giving 

Expression  to  notions  like  these. 
You  might  have  been  stronger  if  living 

Out  here  in  our  sanative  breeze. 

It 's  unhealthy  here  for  disease. 

No,  I  'm  not  as  plump  as  a  pullet, 
But  that 's  the  old  wound,  you  see. 

Remember  my  paunching  a  bullet? — 
And  how  that  it  did  n't  agree 
With — well,  honest  hardtack  for  me. 

Just  pass  me  the  wine — I  've  a  helly 
And  horrible  kind  of  drouth ! 

When  a  fellow  has  that  in  his  belly 
Which  did  n't  go  in  at  his  mouth 
He  's  hotter  than  all  Down  South ! 


352       AT    THE   ''NATIONAL   ENCAMPMENT." 

Great  Scott !  what  a  nasty  day  that  was — 
When  every  galoot  in  our  crack 

Division  who  did  n't  lie  flat  was 
Dissuaded  from  further  attack 
By  the  bullet's  felicitous  whack. 

'T  was  there  that  our  major  slept  under 
Some  cannon  of  ours  on  the  crest, 

Till  they  woke  him  by  stilling  their  thunder, 
And  he  cursed  them  for  breaking  his  rest, 
And  died  in  the  midst  of  his  jest. 

That  night — it  was  late  in  November — 
The  dead  seemed  uncommonly  chill 

To  the  touch ;  and  one  chap  I  remember 
Who  took  it  exceedingly  ill 
When  I  dragged  myself  over  his  bill. 

Well,  comrades,  I  'm  off  now — good  morning. 

Your  talk  is  as  pleasant  as  pie, 
But,  pardon  me,  one  word  of  warning : 

Speak  little  of  self,  say  I. 

That's  my  way.    God  bless  you.    Good-bye. 


THE   KING   OF  BORES.  353 


THE   KING   OF   BORES. 

Abundant  bores  afflict  this  world,  and  some 
Are  bores  of  magnitude  that  come  and — no, 
They  're  always  coming,  but  they  never  go — 

Like  funeral  pageants,  as  they  drone  and  hum 

Their  lurid  nonsense  like  a  muffled  drum, 
Or  bagpipe's  dread  unnecessary  flow. 
But  one  superb  tormentor  I  can  show  — 

Prince  Fiddlefaddle,  Due  de  Feefawfum. 

He  the  johndonkey  is  who,  when  I  pen 
Amorous  verses  in  an  idle  mood 

To  nobody,  or  of  her,  reads  them  through 

And,  smirking,  says  he  knows  the  lady ;  then 

Calls  me  sly  dog.    I  wish  he  understood 

This  tender  sonnet's  application  too. 


354  HISTORY. 


HISTORY. 

What  wrecked  the  Roman  power  ?  One  says  vice, 

Another  indolence,  another  dice. 

Emascle  says  polygamy.    "  Not  so," 

Says  Impycu — "  't  was  luxury  and  show." 

The  parson,  lifting  up  a  brow  of  brass, 

Swears  superstition  gave  the  coup  de  grace, 

Great  Allison,  the  statesman-chap  affirms 

'T  was  lack  of  coins  (croaks  Medico :  "  'T  was 

worms"  ) 

And  John  P.  Jones  the  swift  suggestion  collars, 
Averring  the  no  coins  were  silver  dollars. 
Thus,  through  the  ages,  each  presuming  quack 
Turns  the  poor  corpse  upon  its  rotten  back, 
Holds  a  new  "autopsy"  and  finds  that  death 
Resulted  partly  from  the  want  of  breath, 
But  chiefly  from  some  visitation  sad 
That  points  his  argument  or  serves  his  fad. 
They  're  all  in  error — never  human  mind 
The  cause  of  the  disaster  has  divined. 
What  slew  the  Roman  power?  Well,  provided 
You  '11  keep  the  secret,  I  will  tell  you.    I  did. 


THE   HERMIT.  355 


THE   HERMIT. 

To  a  hunter  from  the  city, 

Overtaken  by  the  night, 
Spake,  in  tones  of  tender  pity 

For  himself,  an  aged  wight: 

"  I  have  found  the  world  a  fountain 

Of  deceit  and  Life  a  sham. 
I  have  taken  to  the  mountain 

And  a  Holy  Hermit  am. 

"  Sternly  bent  on  Contemplation, 
Far  apart  from  human  kind — 

In  the  hill  my  habitation, 
In  the  Infinite  my  mind. 

"  Ten  long  years  I  Jve  lived  a  dumb  thing, 
Growing  bald  and  bent  with  dole, 

Vainly  seeking  for  a  Something 
To  engage  my  gloomy  soul. 

"  Gentle  Pilgrim,  while  my  roots  you 
Eat,  and  quaff  my  simple  drink, 

Please  suggest  whatever  suits  you 
As  a  Theme  for  me  to  Think." 


356  THE  HERMIT. 

Then  the  hunter  answered  gravely: 
"  From  distraction  free,  and  strife, 

You  could  ponder  very  bravely 
On  the  Vanity  of  Life." 

"  O,  thou  wise  and  learned  Teacher, 
You  have  solved  the  Problem  well- 

You  have  saved  a  grateful  creature 
From  the  agonies  of  hell. 

"  Take  another  root,  another 
Cup  of  water:  eat  and  drink. 

Now  I  have  a  Subject,  brother, 

Tell  me  What,  and  How,  to  think." 


TO   A    CRITIC   OF    TENNYSON.  357 


TO   A    CRITIC    OF   TENNYSON. 

Affronting  fool,  subdue  your  transient  light; 
When  Wisdom's  dull  dares  Folly  to  be  bright  ? 
If  Genius  stumble  in  the  path  to  fame, 
'T  is  decency  in  dunces  to  go  lame. 


358  THE    YEARLY  LIE. 


THE   YEARLY    LIE. 

A  merry  Christmas  ?   Prudent,  as  I  live ! — 
You  wish  me  something  that  you  need  not  give. 

Merry  or  sad,  what  does  it  signify? 
To  you  't  is  equal  if  I  laugh,  or  die. 

Your  hollow  greeting,  like  a  parrot's  jest, 
Finds  all  its  meaning  in  the  ear  addressed. 

Why  "merry"  Christmas?   Faith,  I'd  rather 

frown 
Than  grin  and  caper  like  a  tickled  clown. 

When  fools  are  merry  the  judicious  weep ; 
The  wise  are  happy  only  when  asleep. 

A  present?  Pray  you  give  it  to  disarm 
A  man  more  powerful  to  do  you  harm. 

'T  was  not  your  motive  ?   Well,  I  cannot  let 
You  pay  for  favors  that  you  '11  never  get. 

Perish  the  savage  custom  of  the  gift, 
Founded  in  terror  and  maintained  in  thrift ! 


THE    YEARLY  LIE.  359 

What  men  of  honor  need  to  aid  their  weal 
They  purchase,  or,  occasion  serving,  steal. 

Go  celebrate  the  day  with  turkeys,  pies, 
Sermons  and  psalms,  and,  for  the  children,  lies. 

Let  Santa  Claus  descend  again  the  flue ; 
If  Baby  doubt  it,  swear  that  it  is  true. 

"  A  lie  well  stuck  to  is  as  good  as  truth," 
And  God's  too  old  to  legislate  for  youth. 

Hail  Christmas !  On  my  knees  and  fowl  I  fall ; 

For  greater  grace  and  better  gravy  call. 

Vive  I' Humbug! — that's  to  say,  God  bless  us  all! 


360  CO-OPERATION. 


COOPERATION. 

No  more  the  swindler  singly  seeks  his  prey 
To  hunt  in  couples  is  the  modern  way — 
A  rascal,  from  the  public  to  purloin, 
An  honest  man  to  hide  away  the  coin. 


AN   APOLOGUE.  361 


AN   APOLOGUE. 

A  traveler  observed  one  day 
A  loaded  fruit-tree  by  the  way, 
And  reining  in  his  horse  exclaimed: 
"  The  man  is  greatly  to  be  blamed 
Who,  careless  of  good  morals,  leaves 
Temptation  in  the  way  of  thieves. 
Now  lest  some  villain  pass  this  way 
And  by  this  fruit  be  led  astray 
To  bag  it,  I  will  kindly  pack 
It  snugly  in  my  saddle-sack." 
He  did  so;  then  that  Salt  o'  the  Earth 
Rode  on,  rejoicing  in  his  worth. 


362  DIAGNOSIS. 


DIAGNOSIS. 

Cried  Allen  Forman :    "  Doctor,  pray 

Compose  my  spirits'  strife: 
O  what  may  be  my  chances,  say, 

Of  living  all  my  life? 

"  For  lately  I  have  dreamed  of  high 

And  hempen  dissolution! 
O  doctor,  doctor,  how  can  I 

Amend  my  constitution  ?  " 

The  learned  leech  replied :   "   You  're  young 

And  beautiful  and  strong — 
Permit  me  to  inspect  your  tongue: 

H'm,  ah,  ahem ! — 't  is  long." 


FALLEN.  363 


FALLEN. 

O,  hadst  thou  died  when  thou  wert  great, 
When  at  thy  feet  a  nation  knelt 
To  sob  the  gratitude  it  felt 
And  thank  the  Saviour  of  the  State, 
Gods  might  have  envied  thee  thy  fate! 

Then  was  the  laurel  round  thy  brow, 
And  friend  and  foe  spoke  praise  of  thee, 
While  all  our  hearts  sang  victory. 
Alas !  thou  art  too  base  to  bow 
To  hide  the  shame  that  brands  it  now. 


364  DIES  IRJE. 


DIES    IRJE. 

A  recent  republication  of  the  late  Gen.  John  A.  Dix's 
disappointing  translation  of  this  famous  medieval  hymn, 
together  with  some  researches  into  its  history  which  I 
happened  to  be -making  at  the  time,  induces  me  to  under- 
take a  translation  myself.  It  may  seem  presumption  in 
me  to  attempt  that  which  so  many  eminent  scholars  of 
so  many  generations  have  attempted  before  me;  but  the 
conspicuous  failure  of  others  encourages  me  to  hope 
that  success,  being  still  unachieved,  is  still  achievable. 
The  fault  of  previous  translations,  from  Lord  Macaulay's 
to  that  of  Gen.  Dix,  has  been,  I  venture  to  think,  a  too 
strict  literalness,  whereby  the  delicate  irony  and  subtle 
humor  of  the  immortal  poem — though  doubtless  these 
admirable  qualities  were  well  appreciated  by  the  trans- 
lators— have  been  utterly  sacrificed  in  the  result.  In  none 
of  the  English  versions  that  I  have  examined  is  more 
than  a  trace  of  the  mocking  spirit  of  insincerity  pervading 
the  whole  prayer, — the  cool  effrontery  of  the  suppliant  in 
enumerating  his  demerits,  his  serenely  illogical  demands  of 
salvation  in  spite,  or  rather  because,  of  them,  his  meek  sub- 
mission to  the  punishment  of  others,  and  the  many  simi- 


DIES 

Dies  irae!   dies  ilia! 
Solvet  sseclum  in  favilla 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla. 

Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 
Quando  Judex  est  venturtts. 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurus. 


THE   DAY   OF    WRATH.  365 

larly  pleasing  characteristics  of  this  amusing  work,  being 
most  imperfectly  conveyed.  By  permitting  myself  a  reason- 
able freedom  of  rendering — in  many  cases  boldly  supplying 
that  "missing  link"  between  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous 
which  the  author,  writing  for  the  acute  monkish  appre- 
hension of  the  I3th  century,  did  not  deem  it  neces- 
sary to  insert — I  have  hoped  at  least  partially  to  liberate 
the  lurking  devil  of  humor  from  his  fetters,  letting  him 
caper,  not,  certainly,  as  he  does  in  the  Latin,  but  as  he 
probably  would  have  done  had  his  creator  written  in 
English.  In  preserving  the  metre  and  double  rhymes  of 
the  original,  I  have  acted  from  the  same  reverent  regard 
for  the  music  with  which,  in  the  liturgy  of  the  Church, 
the  verses  have  become  inseparably  wedded  that  inspired 
Gen.  Dix;  seeking  rather  to  surmount  the  obstacles  to 
success  by  honest  effort,  than  to  avoid  them  by  the  adop- 
tion of  an  easier  versification  which  would  have  deprived 
my  version  of  all  utility  in  religious  service. 

I  must  bespeak  the  reader's  charitable  consideration  in 
respect  of  the  first  stanza,  the  insuperable  difficulties  of 
which  seem  to  have  been  purposely  contrived  in  order 
to  warn  off  trespassers  at  the  very  boundary  of  the 
alluring  domain.  I  have  got  over  the  inhibition — somehow 
— but  David  and  the  Sibyl  must  try  to  forgive  me  if  they 
find  themselves  represented  merely  by  the  names  of 
those  conspicuous  personal  qualities  to  which  they  prob- 
ably owed,  respectively,  their  powers  of  prophecy,  as 
Samson's  strength  lay  in  his  hair. 

THE  DAY  OF  WRATH. 

Day  of  Satan's  painful  duty! 
Earth  shall  vanish,  hot  and  sooty; 
So  says  Virtue,  so  says  Beauty. 

Ah !   what  terror  shall  be  shaping 
When  the  Judge  the  truth  's  undraping ! 
Cats  from  every  bag  escaping! 


366  DIES  IR3E. 

Tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulchra  regionem, 
Coget  omnes  ante  thronum. 

Mors  stupebit,  et  Natura, 
Quum  resurget  creatura 
Judicanti  responsura. 

Liber  scriptus  proferetur, 
In  quo  totum  continetur, 
Unde  mundus  judicetur. 

Judex  ergo  quum  sedebit, 
Quicquid  latet  apparebit, 
Nil  inultum  remanebit. 

Quid  sum  miser  tune  dicturus, 
Quern  patronem  rogaturus, 
Quum  vix  Justus  sit  securus? 

Rex  tremendae  majestatis, 
Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis ; 
Salva  me,  Fons  pietatis. 

Recordare,  Jesu  pie, 
Quod  sum  causa  tuse  viae; 
Ne  me  perdas  ilia  die. 


THE   DAY   OF   WRATH.  367 

Now  the  trumpet's  invocation 
Calls  the  dead  to  condemnation; 
All  receive  an  invitation. 


Death  and  Nature  now  are  quaking, 

And  the  late  lamented,  waking, 

In  their  breezy  shrouds  are  shaking. 

Lo!   the  Ledger's  leaves  are  stirring, 
And  the  Clerk,  to  them  referring, 
Makes  it  awkward  for  the  erring. 

When  the  Judge  appears  in  session, 
We  shall  all  attend  confession, 
Loudly  preaching  non-suppression. 

How  shall  I  then  make  romances 

Mitigating  circumstances  ? 

Even  the  just  must  take  their  chances. 

King  whose  majesty  amazes, 

Save  thou  him  who  sings  thy  praises; 

Fountain,  quench  my  private  blazes. 

Pray  remember,  sacred  Savior, 
Mine  the  playful  hand  that  gave  your 
Death-blow.     Pardon  such  behavior. 


368  DIES  1RM. 

Quaerens  me  sedisti  lassus 
Redemisti  crucem  passus, 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus. 


Juste  Judex  ultionis, 
Donum  fac  remissionis 
Ante  diem  rationis. 

Ingemisco  tanquam  reus, 
Culpa  rubet  vultus  meus ; 
Supplicant!  parce,  Deus. 

Qui  Mariam  absolvisti, 
Et  latronem  exaudisti, 
Mihi  quoque  spem  dedisti. 

Preces  mese  non  sunt  dignae, 
Sed  tu  bonus  fac  benigne 
Ne  perenni  cremer  igne. 

Inter  oves  locum  praesta. 
Et  ab  haedis  me  sequestra, 
Statuens  in  parte  dextra. 

Confutatis  maledictis, 
Flammis  acribus  addictis, 
Voca  me  cum  benedictis. 


THE   DAY   OF   WRATH.  369 

Seeking  me  fatigue  assailed  thee, 
Calvary's  outlook  naught  availed  thee ; 
Now  't  were  cruel  if  I  failed  thee. 

Righteous  judge  and  learned  brother, 
Pray  thy  prejudices  smother 
Ere  we  meet  to  try  each  other. 

Sighs  of  guilt  my  conscience  gushes, 
And  my  face  vermilion  flushes; 
Spare  me  for  my  pretty  blushes. 

Thief  and  harlot,  when  repenting, 
Thou  forgav'st — be  complimenting 
Me  with  sign  of  like  relenting. 

If  too  bold  is  my  petition 

I  '11  receive  with  due  submission 

My  dismissal — from  perdition. 

When  thy  sheep  thou  hast  selected 
From  the  goats,  may  I,  respected, 
Stand  amongst  them  undetected. 

When  offenders  are  indicted, 
And  with  trial-flames  ignited, 
Elsewhere  I  '11  attend  if  cited. 


370  DIES  IR2E. 

Oro  supplex  et  acclinis, 
Cor  contritum  quasi  cinis; 
Gere  curam  mei  finis. 

Lacrymosa  dies  ilia 
Qua  resurget  et  favilla, 
Judicandus  homo  reus, 
Huic  ergo  parce,  Deus! 


THE  DAY   OF   WRATH.  37 1 

Ashen-hearted,  prone,  and  prayerful, 
When  of  death  I  see  the  air  full, 
Lest  I  perish,  too,  be  careful. 

On  that  day  of  lamentation, 
When,  to  enjoy  the  conflagration, 
Men  come  forth,  O,  be  not  cruel, 
Spare  me,  Lord — make  them  thy  fuel. 


372  ONE   MOOD'S   EXPRESSION. 


ONE   MOOD'S    EXPRESSION. 

See,  Lord,  fanatics  all  arrayed 

For  revolution! 

To  foil  their  villainous  crusade 
Unsheathe  again  the  sacred  blade 

Of  persecution. 

What  though  through  long  disuse  't  is  grown 

A  trifle  rusty  ? 

'Gainst  modern  heresy,  whose  bone 
Is  rotten,  and  the  flesh  fly-blown, 

It  still  is  trusty. 

Of  sterner  stuff  thine  ancient  foes, 

Unapprehensive, 

Sprang  forth  to  meet  thy  biting  blows; 
Our  zealots  chiefly  to  the  nose 

Assume  the  offensive. 

Then  wield  the  blade  their  necks  to  hack, 

Nor  ever  spare  one. 
Thy  crowns  of  martyrdom  unpack, 
But  see  that  every  martyr  lack 

The  head  to  wear  one. 


SOMETHING   IN    THE   PAPERS.  373 


SOMETHING   IN    THE    PAPERS. 

"  What's  in  the  paper?  "    Oh,  it 's  dev'lish  dull : 

There  's  nothing  happening  at  all — a  lull 

After  the  war-storm.    Mr.  Someone's  wife 

Killed  by  her  lover  with,  I  think,  a  knife. 

A  fire  on  Blank  Street  and  some  babies — one, 

Two,  three  or  four,  I  don't  remember,  done 

To  quite  a  delicate  and  lovely  brown. 

A  husband  shot  by  woman  of  the  town — 

The  same  old  story.     Shipwreck  somewhere  south, 

The  crew  all  saved — or  lost.     Uncommon   drouth 

Makes  hundreds  homeless  up  the  River  Mud — 

Though,  come  to  think,  I  guess  it  was  a  flood. 

'T  is  feared  some  bank  will  burst — or  else  it  won't ; 

They  always  burst,  I  fancy — or  they  don't; 

Who  cares  a  cent? — the  banker  pays  his  coin 

And  takes  his  chances:    bullet  in  the  groin — 

But  that 's  another  item — suicide — 

Fool  lost  his  money  (serve  him  right)  and  died. 

Heigh-ho!    there's  noth —     Jerusalem!    what's  this? 

Tom  Jones  has  failed!     My  God,  what  an  abyss 

Of  ruin! — owes  me  seven  hundred,  clear! 

Was  ever  such  a  damned  disastrous  year! 


374  IN   THE   BINNACLE. 


IN   THE    BINNACLE. 

[The  Church  possesses  the  unerring  compass  whose 
needle  points  directly  and  persistently  to  the  star  of  the 
eternal  law  of  God. — Religious  Weekly.] 

The  Church's  compass,  if  you  please, 
Has  two  or  three  (or  more)  degrees 

Of  variation; 

And  many  a  soul  has  gone  to  grief 
On  this  or  that  or  t'  other  reef 
Through  faith  unreckoning  or  brief 

Miscalculation. 
Misguidance  is  of  perils  chief 

To  navigation. 

The  obsequious  thing  makes,  too,  you  '11  mark, 
Obeisance  through  a  little  arc 

Of  declination; 

For  Satan,  fearing  witches,  drew 
From  Death's  pale  horse,  one  day,  a  shoe} 
And  nailed  it  to  his  door  to  undo 

Their  machination. 
Since  then  the  needle  dips  to  woo 

His  habitation. 


HUMILITY.  375 


HUMILITY. 

Great  poets  fire  the  world  with  fagots  big 

That  make  a  crackling  racket, 
But  I  'm  content  with  but  a  whispering  twig 

To  warm  some  single  jacket. 


376  ONE   PRESIDENT. 


ONE    PRESIDENT. 

"  What  are  those,  father  ?  "     "  Statesmen,  my  child— 
Lacrymose,  unparliamentary,  wild." 

"What  are  they  that  way  for,  father?"     "Last  fall, 
'  Our  candidate's  better/  they  said,  '  than  all ! '  " 

"What  did  they  say  he  was,  father?"     "A  man 
Built  on  a  straight  incorruptible  plan — 
Believing  that  none  for  an  office  would  do 
Unless  he  were  honest  and  capable  too." 

"  Poor  gentlemen — so  disappointed !  "     "  Yes,  lad, 
That  is  the  feeling  that 's  driving  them  mad ; 
They  're  weeping  and  wailing  and  gnashing  because 
They  find  that  he  's  all  that  they  said  that  he  was." 


THE   BRIDE.  377 


THE    BRIDE. 

"  You  know,  my  friends,  with  what  a  brave  carouse 
I  made  a  second  marriage  in  my  house — 

Divorced  old  barren  Reason  from  my  bed 
And  took  the  Daughter  of  the  Vine  to  spouse." 

So  sang  the  Lord  of  Poets.     In  a  gleam 
Of  light  that  made  her  like  an  angel  seem, 

The  Daughter  of  the  Vine  said :     "  I  myself 
Am  Reason,  and  the  Other  was  a  Dream." 


378  STRAINED   RELATIONS. 


STRAINED    RELATIONS. 

Says  England  to  Germany :    "  Africa  Js  ours." 
Says  Germany :     "  Ours,  I  opine." 

Says  Africa :     "  Tell  me,  delectable  Pow'rs, 
What  is  it  that  ought  to  be  mine  ?  " 


THE   MAN   BORN   BLIND.  379 


THE    MAN    BORN    BLIND. 

A  man  born  blind  received  his  sight 

By  a  painful  operation ; 
And  these  are  things  he  saw  in  the  light 

Of  an  infant  observation. 

He  saw  a  merchant,  good  and  wise, 

And  greatly,  too,  respected, 
Who  looked,  to  those  imperfect  eyes, 

Like  a  swindler  undetected. 

He  saw  a  patriot  address 

A  noisy  public  meeting. 
And  said :  "  Why,  that 's  a  calf,  I  guess, 

That  for  the  teat  is  bleating." 

A  doctor  stood  beside  a  bed 
And  shook  his  summit  sadly. 

"  O  see  that  foul  assassin !  "  said 
The  man  who  saw  so  badly. 

He  saw  a  lawyer  pleading  for 

A  thief  whom  they  'd  been  jailing, 

And  said :     "  That 's  an  accomplice,  or 
My  sight  again  is  failing." 


380  THE   MAN  BORN   BLIND. 

Upon  the  Bench  a  Justice  sat, 
With  nothing  to  restrain  him; 

fTis  strange,"  said  the  observer,  "that 
They  ventured  to  unchain  him." 

With  theologic  works  supplied, 

He  saw  a  solemn  preacher; 
"  A  burglar  with  his  kit,"  he  cried, 

"  To  rob  a  fellow  creature." 

A  bluff  old  farmer  next  he  saw 

Sell  produce  in  a  village, 
And  said :    "  What,  what !   is  there  no  law 

To  punish  men  for  pillage  ?  " 

A  dame,  tall,  fair  and  stately,  passed, 

Who  many  charms  united; 
He  thanked  his  stars  his  lot  was  cast 

Where  sepulchers  were  whited. 

He  saw  a  soldier  stiff  and  stern, 
"  Full  of  strange  oaths  "  and  toddy ; 

But  was  unable  to  discern 
A  wound  upon  his  body. 

Ten  square  leagues  of  rolling  ground 
To  one  great  man  belonging, 

Looked  like  one  little  grassy  mound 
With  worms  beneath  it  thronging. 


THE   MAN  BORN   BLIND.  381 

A  palace's  well-carven  stones, 

Where  Dives  dwelt  contented, 
Seemed  built  throughout  of  human  bones 

With  human  blood  cemented. 

He  watched  the  yellow  shining  thread 

A  silk-worm  was  a-spinning; 
"  That  creature  's  coining  gold/'  he  said, 

"  To  pay  some  girl  for  sinning." 

His  eyes  were  so  untrained  and  dim 

All   politics,    religions, 
Arts,  sciences,  appeared  to  him 

But  modes  of  plucking  pigeons. 

And  so  he  drew  his  final  breath, 
And  thought  he  saw  with  sorrow 

Some  persons  weeping  for  his  death 
Who  'd  be  all  smiles  to-morrow. 


382  A   NIGHTMARE. 


A    NIGHTMARE. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead.     The  years  went  by: 
The  world  forgot  that  such  a  man  as  I 

Had  ever  lived  and  written :  other  names 
Were  hailed  with  homage,  in  their  turn  to  die. 

Out  of  my  grave  a  giant  beech  upgrew. 

Its  roots  transpierced  my  body,  through  and  through, 

My  substance  fed  its  growth.     From  many  lands 
Men  came  in  troops  that  giant  tree  to  view. 

'T  was  sacred  to  my  memory  and  fame — 
My  monument.     But  Allen  Forman  came, 

Filled  with  the  fervor  of  a  new  untruth, 
And  carved  upon  the  trunk  his  odious  name! 


A    WET  SEASON.  383 


A   WET    SEASON. 
Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas. 

The  rain  is  fierce,  it  flogs  the  earth, 

And  man  's  in  danger. 
O  that  my  mother  at  my  birth 

Had  borne  a  stranger ! 
The  flooded  ground  is  all  around, 

The  depth  uncommon, 
How  blest  I  'd  be  if  only  she 

Had  borne  a  salmon. 

If  still  denied  the  solar  glow 

'T  were  bliss  ecstatic 
To  be  amphibious — but  O, 

To  be  aquatic ! 
We  're  worms,  men  say,  o'  the  dust,  and  they 

That  faith  are  firm  of. 
O,  then,  be  just:  show  me  some  dust 

To  be  a  worm  of. 

The  pines  are  chanting  overhead 
A  psalm  uncheering. 


384  A    WET  SEASON. 

It 's  O,  to  have  been  for  ages  dead 

And  hard  of  hearing! 
Restore,  ye  Pow'rs,  the  last  bright  hours 

The  dial  reckoned; 
'T  was  in  the  time  of  Egypt's  prime — 

Rameses  II. 


THE   CONFEDERATE   FLAGS.  385 


THE    CONFEDERATE    FLAGS. 

Tut-tut!    give  back  the  flags — how  can  you  care, 

You  veterans  and  heroes? 
Why  should  you  at  a  kind  intention  swear 

Like  twenty  Neroes? 

Suppose  the  act  was  not  so  overwise — 

Suppose  it  was  illegal- 
Is  't  well  on  such  a  question  to  arise 

And  pinch  the  Eagle  ? 

Nay,  let 's  economize  his  breath  to  scold 

And  terrify  the  alien 
Who  tackles  him,  as  Hercules  of  old 

The  bird  Stymphalian. 

Among  the  rebels  when  we  made  a  breach 

Was  it  to  get  their  banners? 
That  was  but  incidental — 't  was  to  teach 

Them  better  manners. 

They  know  the  lesson  well  enough  to-day ; 

Now,  let  us  try  to  show  them 
That  we  're  not  only  stronger  far  than  they, 

(How  we  did  mow  them!) 


386  THE   CONFEDERATE   FLAGS. 

But  more  magnanimous.    You  see,  my  lads, 

JT  was  an  uncommon  riot ; 
The  warlike  tribes  of  Europe  fight  for  "  fads," 

We  fought  for  quiet. 

If  we  were  victors,  then  we  all  must  live 

With  the  same  flag  above  us ; 
'T  was  all  in  vain  unless  we  now  forgive 

And  make  them  love  us. 

Let  kings  keep  trophies  to  display  above 

Their  doors  like  any  savage; 
The  freeman's  trophy  is  the  foeman's  love, 

Despite  war's  ravage. 

"  Make  treason  odious  ?  "    My  friends,  you  '11  find 

You  can't,  in  right  and  reason, 
While  "Washington"  and  "treason"  are  combined — 

"Hugo"  and  "treason." 

All  human  governments  must  take  the  chance 

And  hazard  of  sedition. 
O,  wretch!   to  pledge  your  manhood  in  advance 

To  blind  submission. 

It  may  be  wrong,  it  may  be  right,  to  rise 

In  warlike  insurrection: 
The  loyalty  that  fools  so  dearly  prize 

May  mean  subjection. 


THE   CONFEDERATE   FLAGS.  387 

Be  loyal  to  your  country,  yes — but  how 

If  tyrants  hold  dominion? 
The  South  believed  they  did;  can't  you  allow 

For  that  opinion? 

He  who  will  never  rise  though  rulers  plot, 

His  liberties  despising — 
How  is  he  manlier  than  the  sans  culottes 

Who  's  always  rising  ? 

Give  back  the  foolish  flags  whose  bearers  fell, 

Too  valiant  to  forsake  them. 
Is  it  presumptuous,  this  counsel?    Well, 

I  helped  to  take  them. 


388  HJEC   F  ABU  LA    DOCET. 


ILEC    FABULA    DOCET. 

A  rat  who  'd  gorged  a  box  of  bane 

And  suffered  an  internal  pain, 

Came  from  his  hole  to  die  (the  label 

Required  it  if  the  rat  were  able) 

And  found  outside  his  habitat 

A  limpid  stream.     Of  bane  and  rat 

'T  was  all  unconscious ;    in  the  sun 

It  ran  and  prattled  just  for  fun. 

Keen  to  allay  his  inward  throes, 

The  beast  immersed  his  filthy  nose 

And  drank — then,  bloated  by  the  stream, 

And  filled  with  superheated  steam, 

Exploded  with  a  rascal  smell, 

Remarking,  as  his  fragments  fell 

Astonished  in  the  brook :     "  I  'm  thinking 

This  water  's  damned  unwholesome  drinking !  " 


EXONERATION.  389 


EXONERATION. 

When  men  at  candidacy  don't  connive, 

From  that  suspicion  if  their  friends  would  free  'em, 
The  teeth  and  nails  with  which  they  did  not  strive 

Should  be  exhibited  in  a  museum. 


390  AZRAEL. 


AZRAEL. 

The  moon  in  the  field  of  the  keel-plowed  main 
Was  watching  the  growing  tide: 

A  luminous  peasant  was  driving  his  wain, 
And  he  offered  my  soul  a  ride. 

But  I  nourished  a  sorrow  uncommonly  tall, 
And  I  fixed  him  fast  with  mine  eye. 

"  O,  peasant,"  I  sang  with  a  dying  fall, 
"  Go  leave  me  to  sing  and  die." 

The  water  was  weltering  round  my  feet, 
As  prone  on  the  beach  they  lay. 

I  chanted  my  death-song  loud  and  sweet; 
"Kioodle,  ioodle,  iay!" 

Then  I  heard  the  swish  of  erecting  ears      . 

Which  caught  that  enchanted  strain. 
The  ocean  was  swollen  with  storms  of  tears 

That  fell  from  the  shining  swain. 

"  O,  poet,"  leapt  he  to  the  soaken  sand, 
"  That  ravishing  song  would  make 

The  devil  a  saint."  He  held  out  his  hand 
And  solemnly  added :  "  Shake." 


AZRAEL.  391 

We  shook.     "  I  crave  a  victim,  you  see," 
He  said — "  you  came  hither  to  die." 

The  Angel  of  Death,  'twas  he!    'twas  he! 
And  the  victim  he  crove  was  I ! 

'T  was  I,  Fred  Emerson  Brooks,  the  bard ; 

And  he  knocked  me  on  the  head. 
O,  Lord !   I  thought  it  exceedingly  hard, 

For  I  did  n't  want  to  be  dead. 

"  You  '11  sing  no  worser  for  that,"  said  he, 

And  he  drove  with  my  soul  away. 
O,  death-song  singers,  be  warned  by  me, 

Kioodle,  ioodle,  iay! 


392  AGAIN. 


AGAIN. 

Well,  I  've  met  her  again — at  the  Mission. 

She  'd  told  me  to  see  her  no  more ; 
It  was  not  a  command — a  petition; 

I  'd  granted  it  once  before. 

Yes,  granted  it,  hoping  she  'd  write  me. 
Repenting  her  virtuous  freak — 

Subdued  myself  daily  and  nightly 
For  the  better  part  of  a  week. 

And  then  ('twas  my  duty  to  spare  her 

The  shame  of  recalling  me)  I 
Just  sought  her  again  to  prepare  her 

For  an  everlasting  good-bye. 

O,  that  evening  of  bliss — shall  I  ever 
Forget  it  ? — with  Shakespeare  and  Poe ! 

She  said,  when  't  was  ended :  "  You  're  never 
To  see  me  again.    And  now  go." 

As  we  parted  with  kisses  't  was  human 

And  natural  for  me  to  smile 
As  I  thought,  "  She  's  in  love,  and  a  woman : 

She  '11  send  for  me  after  a  while." 


AGAIN.  393 

But  she  did  n't ;  and  so — well,  the  Mission 

Is  fine,  picturesque  and  gray; 
It 's  an  excellent  place  for  contrition — 

And  sometimes  she  passes  that  way. 

That 's  how  it  occurred  that  I  met  her, 

And  that 's  all  there  is  to  tell— 
Except  that  I '  d  like  to  forget  her 

Calm  way  of  remarking :    "  I  'm  well." 

It  was  hardly  worth  while,  all  this  keying 

My  soul  to  such  tensions  and  stirs 
To  learn  that  her  food  was  agreeing 

With  that  little  stomach  of  hers. 


394  HOMO   PODUNKENSIS. 


HOMO    PODUNKENSIS. 

As  the  poor  ass  that  from  his  paddock  strays 

Might  sound  abroad  his  field-companions'  praise, 

Recounting  volubly  their  well-bred  leer, 

Their  port  impressive  and  their  wealth  of  ear, 

Mistaking  for  the  world's  assent  the  clang 

Of  echoes  mocking  his  accurst  harangue; 

So  the  dull  clown,  untraveled  though  at  large, 

Visits  the  city  on  the  ocean's  marge, 

Expands  his  eyes  and  marvels  to  remark 

Each  coastwise  schooner  and  each  alien  bark; 

Prates  of  "  all  nations/'  wonders  as  he  stares 

That  native  merchants  sell  imported  wares, 

Nor  comprehends  how  in  his  very  view 

A  foreign  vessel  has  a  foreign  crew; 

Yet,  faithful  to  the  hamlet  of  his  birth, 

Swears  it  superior  to  aught  on  earth, 

Sighs  for  the  temples  locally  renowned — 

The  village  school-house  and  the  village  pound — 

And  chalks  upon  the  palaces  of  Rome 

The  peasant  sentiments  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home ! " 


A   SOCIAL   CALL.  395 


A    SOCIAL   CALL. 

Well,  well,  old  Father  Christmas,  is  it  you, 

With  your  thick  neck  and  thin  pretense  of  virtue  ? 

Less  redness  in  the  nose — nay,  even  some  blue 
Would  not,  I  think,  particularly  hurt  you. 

When  seen  close  to,  not  mounted  in  your  car, 

You  look  the  drunkard  and  the  pig  you  are. 

No  matter,  sit  you  down,  for  I  am  not 

In  a  gray  study,  as  you  sometimes  find  me. 

Merry?     O,  no,  nor  wish  to  be,  God  wot, 
But  there  's  another  year  of  pain  behind  me. 

That's  something  to  be  thankful  for:    the  more 

There  are  behind,  the  fewer  are  before. 

I  know  you,  Father  Christmas,  for  a  scamp, 
But  Heaven  endowed  me  at  my  soul's  creation 

With  an  affinity  to  every  tramp 

That  walks  the  world  and  steals  its  admiration. 

For  admiration  is  like  linen  left 

Upon  the  line — got  easiest  by  theft. 


396  A  SOCIAL  CALL. 

Good  God !    old  man,  just  think  of  it !     F  ve  stood, 
With  brains  and  honesty,  some  five-and-twenty 

Long  years  as  champion  of  all  that 's  good, 
And  taken  on  the  mazzard  thwacks  a-plenty. 

Yet  now  whose  praises  do  the  people  bawl? 

Those  of  the  fellows  whom  I  live  to  maul! 

Why,  this  is  odd ! — the  more  I  try  to  talk 
Of  you  the  more  my  tongue  grows  egotistic 

To  prattle  of  myself !    I  '11  try  to  balk 
Its  waywardness  and  be  more  altruistic. 

So  let  us  speak  of  others — how  they  sin, 

And  what  a  devil  of  a  state  they  're  in ! 

That 's  all  I  have  to  say.    Good-bye,  old  man. 

Next  year  you  possibly  may  find  me  scolding — 
Or  miss  me  altogether:    Nature's  plan 

Includes,  as  I  suppose,  a  final  folding 
Of  these  poor  empty  hands.    Then  drop  a  tear 
To  think  they'll  never  box  another  ear. 


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